Mind Games
by daphrose
Summary: Three lost souls, three worlds, three stories: all more connected than they could have ever imagined. A, B, C. The blizzard, the prairie, the prison. The scarred soldier looking for warmth, the white-haired crash survivor looking for home, the gaunt test subject looking for a way out. "When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"
1. Chapter 1-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 1.1 * * ***

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"Look at you. How pathetic." He hit the boy's head. "Hmm. Pathetic."

The boy—and boy was a stretch; he was more of a young man—looked down like a kicked puppy. His chest quivered with every breath as he struggled to hold his shame and anger.

"You misled us. We thought you were stronger." Another hit—this one harder. "You brought this all on yourself." Hit again. "What a worthless soldier. Your body is weak." Another one—this one leaving spots in front of his eyes.

"It's not . . ." He swallowed, feeling the saliva run down the sandpaper he called a throat. "Not my . . . f-fault." He met the gaze of the man. "I'll get better."

"You will. Yes, you will. And when you do, we'll send you out again. But until then, you have become nothing but a hinderance to us. And taking seven bullets"—he tapped the boy's bandage-wrapped thigh—"that _was_ your fault. We thought you were better trained."

The boy looked down even further. He _had_ been trained better. Maybe taking the bullets was his way of taking a stand. The only thing he regretted was that one hadn't pierced his heart. Even if it did, they most likely would've found a way to revive him.

"When Graham brought you to us all those years ago, I thought you would be a powerful soldier. I thought you would be stronger than this. We've done everything possible to keep you alive, but you're pushing our boundaries, C. If we ever hope to bring down the government—to win this war!—we need soldiers like you. Powerful ones!"

The boy let out a laugh as dry as dust. "Nice exposition."

Another hit. He tasted blood.

"We know that your mind is the most powerful part of you," the man said, "so we've found a way to use it to our advantage. Call it a little . . . test."

"You're . . . turning me into . . ." He tried to cough—another hit. "A lab rat?"

"Like you're not used to it." The man walked over to a table on the other side of the dark room. He picked up some kind of helmet and fingered it as though it were a child—though the boy hardly doubted he would look at a child so fondly. "This"—he flipped it over and walked to the boy—"this is our latest advancement. We want you to test it out."

"What's it do?"

The man grinned like a Cheshire cat. "We'll show you a few stories, and we'll play a few mind games while we're at it. If your body cannot do what it's supposed to, we trust that your mind will."

"What if I don't want to do this?"

"What if you don't have a choice? Who here is strapped to a chair? Who here has bullets in every appendage? You are in no position to fight me."

The boy bowed his head, recognizing defeat.

The helmet fit snuggly. Some kind of metal rods poked his skull and gave him a dull headache. He knew that was far from the worst part.

And then he wasn't there in the dark room. He was in a darker place, but not a room. It was noplace, everyplace, and anyplace. He stood there, unable to move, only to watch.

What he saw left him with tears streaming down his cheeks.

His biggest fears played out in front of his eyes: embarrassments, death, torture and trauma beyond belief. He saw glimpses of people he vaguely remembered, but he didn't know them. Good, because he sat and watched them die.

He stood, unable to move or even close his eyes. He watched as every horrible thought, word, and deed passed in front of him.

Screams, chills, cries, pleas. No help for them, no help for him.

After what seemed to be an eternity of torture, it stopped, and he was back in noplace.

He screamed.

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 **This is story is rated a _high T_ for the following reasons: Psychological and physical torture, war, violence, blood, theft, one mild swear, many more implied swears, human experimentation, one mildly suggestive scene, depressed thoughts, allusions to suicide, minor character deaths, and implied deaths of canon characters. I don't approve of any of that, and it's all shown in a bad light. Do not copy this behavior, and keep your guard up while reading.**

 **AU elements: Graham took Adam, Bree, and Chase away in You Posted What?!; Krane was never captured. (Leo is still bionic.) Anything else you need to know will be revealed in the story itself.**

 **Update schedule (PST; times may vary):  
** **Mornings:  
** **Sun: 8:30 a.m. Mon-Fri: 8:00 a.m. Sat: 9:00 a.m.  
** **Evenings:  
** **Sun: 6:15 p.m. Mon-Tues: 8:00 p.m. Wed: 6:00 p.m. Thurs -Sat: 8:00 p.m.**

 **For guests and people who don't use the follow button, it's highly likely that this story will not move to the top of the archives every time I update (due to FFN not moving the stories up if the updates are close together). Therefore, I recommend checking back at the times I have scheduled instead of relying on the archives.**

 **All chapters are between 300-1000 words. Don't complain; you're getting two a day. There are eighteen chapters, each in three parts, so fifty-four chapters in total. I'll update all chapters over twenty-seven days.**

 **This story is intended to keep you guessing until the end. If you want easy answers, I suggest you turn back now. The man may be playing mind games on C, but I'm playing mind games on all of you. That said . . . enjoy the story.**


	2. Chapter 1-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 1.2 * * ***

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She curled up in the corner, ignoring them. They laughed and jested and jabbed each other with their elbows. She stayed hidden, out of sight, until she became the topic of conversation.

"Hey, B, you there?" He was an older one, someone she knew better than the rest. And by _knew_ she meant, of course, _hated_.

"She's not answering."

"She won't."

"C'mon, B, give us a taste of what you can do!"

"Ain't she already?"

"Shut up, Lucas!"

"Stand up. Walk around. Better yet, run around!"

"There ain't enough room in here to run around!"

"Is for her."

"B, up. That's an order!"

"She's ignoring you.

"Well, what do we do?"

"Here, I got it."

She wanted to get up and move, but her body wouldn't respond. Before she knew it, she had a face-full of flour and a revealed position.

"There you are."

"Does B stand for brat or somethin'? Stand _up_!"

She stood, her knees knocking together. She wouldn't be defeated. She held her chin high.

The plane lurched, and they all stumbled backwards. Some of the more inexperienced ones held tightly to their guns. It steadied, and they eased back into the wall.

"Well, B, show yourself!"

For a second she hesitated. She knew what would happen. Too many of them hadn't seen her before.

"Do it!"

She took a breath and turned visible, wiping the flour off her face as she did so. She rubbed her arm back and forth across her eyes. _Don't make me open them. Don't make me open them._

"Whoa."

"Freak!"

" _That's_ what our super-soldier looks like?"

She opened her eyes a slit and looked at the floor of the plane.

"What's 'a matter with 'er eyes?"

She kept them down.

"Look up, B."

The old one. The one she knew. The one she had to listen to.

She lifted her eyes.

"Freak!"

"What 'appened to 'er?"

"She's a guinea pig, boys. You know that. So were a lot of you."

"But none of us look like that!"

Something hit the side of the plane. They screamed; some cursed. More hits. She shrunk back further and bit her tongue. Four years ago she would've done something brave.

"We under attack?"

"Seems so!"

"Thought we were flying at night so they _wouldn't_ hit us!"

"'Fraid they figured it out!"

"Everyone hit the floor!"

Machine guns sounded as some soldiers near her fired back.

"One more hit and we're dead!"

One more hit.

The floor seemed to disappear, and she was falling.


	3. Chapter 1-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 1.3 * * ***

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Every step hurt. He picked up his leg, put it down. Pick up, put down. Slip. Fall. Face full of snow. Stand. Sigh. Keep walking.

"Keep up, A," the man at the front snapped. "If we lose you the officers will kill us."

"Yeah, that's the only reason you worry about me," he muttered to himself. The wind whipped his cheeks like a thousand stinging bees. Move along.

The mountain to their right loomed high above them. Their weapons weighed them down as much as the coats they wore. The snow was up to their knees.

 _Don't stop. You'll freeze. You'll die. If you don't die, you'll be killed. Keep walking. Obey your orders._

He kept his eyes trained on the patch of trees at the bottom of the cliff to their right. They were walking in the open with no cover. They were sitting ducks. Walking ducks, but still.

 _Stay alert. Watch._

Two things he used to hate.

Paying attention? Hardly his thing. But now it was pay attention or die, and if not die, be tortured until you wished you were dead. He had learned to stay alert, to keep his mind on one thing. He hated it, but he hated death more.

"Stop." The whisper came back and the soldiers dropped to their knees. "I thought I saw something. We're good." A sigh of relief.

Stand. Keep walking. Don't stop. Don't freeze.

He cursed the wind under his breath. Then he cursed the snow, the mountains, and his captors who sent him out to places like this. Oh, how he longed to fight with the people his companions saw as the enemy! But defection meant death. Or worse. He didn't want to think about worse.

A rumbling noise. They froze like the ice around them. Guns set on the patch of trees. Enemies? No, the sound came from above them.

Wide eyes. "Avalanche." Louder. "Avalanche!"

They ran like they had the power of super speed, headed for somewhere safe. Nausea swept over them all when they realized there was no safe place. No such thing existed. They were trapped.

"This will be the death of us," the soldier next to him muttered. "Not guns, but snow. That stupid snow!" Only he didn't say "stupid."

"Oh!" another soldier shouted. Only he didn't say "oh."

 _Colorful words_ , someone he used to know would've called them. (Someone? What someone?) _Useless, colorful words._

"Take cover!" their leader shouted.

Where? Where? There was no cover. They had no options.

The noises got louder. He crouched down as if that would help. He had a vague sense of déjà vu, but he knew that this time was much more dangerous than last.

The snow picked them up to toss them around. Like being in a washing machine, he thought. He always wondered what that would be like. He closed his eyes and let it hit him.

Snow. Branches. A body.

He shivered, but not from cold this time.

After an eternity of rolling around, of rolling _down_ , he lay still. The mountain stayed quiet. He could feel pain in his head. And everywhere else. But mostly his head.

 _Get up. Keep going. Don't stay. You'll freeze. You'll die. Get up. Find the others. Keep going in this nightmare you call life._

He couldn't. Mounds of snow pinned him down, but he could still breathe somehow. His hood was pulled over his face; he couldn't see. He tried to move, to push it off.

 _You're supposed to be strong. Do it!_

For the first time in his life, he was sapped of all strength. Every part of him felt numb. He couldn't move, and the air seemed to get stale. He pushed his hand up, moved some snow away, and lay still again.

He knew it: he would die under here.

It wasn't even a good life.

Someone in the distance shouted. He closed his eyes.

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 **Inspiration for "Oh!" and "Stupid" replacing swear words: "The Wednesday Wars" by Gary D. Schmidt.**


	4. Chapter 2-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 2.1 * * ***

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He breathed. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. Gasp. Sigh. Yelp.

Every breath felt like a thousand fire ants had made a home in his abdomen. He pulled up the threadbare shirt to see the gauze taped to his skin. Guessing by the dirty brown color, it needed to be changed—as if that would happen.

 _Maybe I'll die from infection._

Like he could be so lucky.

The door opened and he looked up. The man.

Funny, after so many years he had never learned the man's name.

"Pathetic."

"You've mentioned that." He gasped and wrapped his hands around his stomach—then hissed at the pain in his bicep.

"You ooze pathetic."

"Get a thesaurus."

The man raised his hand and the boy cowered. The hand retreated to spot from which it came, but they both knew it would be back.

He could hardly believe the fear that had swelled in him. Years of abuse could do that, he supposed. What he would've challenged years ago now left him paralyzed. He felt sick to his stomach.

Maybe he was pathetic.

"Ready for some more games, C?"

He felt too listless to even look up. He stayed silent.

"You don't have a choice."

"Why were you showing me those stories?"

"You'll see more of them today. You know those people, don't you?"

Did he? The people he'd seen the night before . . . when he left noplace to look into their lives . . . did he know them? Yes, yes he did. He loved them. But who were they?

The man grabbed his arm and jerked him to his feet. They walked out into the dark hall.

Never mind that he couldn't stand on his own two feet.

Never mind that even the short walk to another door left him breathless.

Never mind that each motion made it feel as if he was getting shot all over again.

Never mind.

They didn't care anyway.

Into the chair. A few people in the corner, but his vision was hazy. The helmet going on his head. Whisked off to noplace before he could fill his lungs with oxygen once more.

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 **The soundtrack for this entire story (particularly C's chapters) is "Anthem of the Lonely" by Nine Lashes. I must've listened to that song a dozen times per chapter. I highly suggest watching the music video for it; it inspired a lot of what happens to C. The cover image for the story is even a screenshot from the video.**

 **Don't forgot to _follow_ this story. It still hasn't moved up in the archives after four updates. Hopefully it will in the morning, but if it doesn't, I might have to rework my update schedule. For now, those without accounts who can't follow, check back at the times I posted in chapter 1.1. For the rest, click on the follow button and check your inbox for updates twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. Thank you.**


	5. Chapter 2-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 2.2 * * ***

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Her eyes snapped open to see the most peaceful thing in nature: a starry night. And while her sense of sight gave her something beautiful, her sense of smell found something quite different lingering in the air: the rancid stench of death.

There was pain, but that wasn't unusual. Her fingers went to her neck to find blood seeping from it. She sat, wiped her bloody hand on her shirt, and looked around.

About twenty men around her, and not one breathing. She swallowed. On the one hand, it scared her. On the other, she had always hated them.

All of them.

Piles of twisted metal lay haphazardly in the grass. The body of the plane sat several feet away, smoke rising from the useless engines.

She dragged her hand through the tall yellow grass and looked up. Beautiful stars.

She stood and staggered backwards. She felt the blood run down her shirt. Any other injuries? Yes, but minor ones. Only the wound on her neck posed any serious threat to her health.

Deep inside, she had a feeling her neck injury may have finally saved her.

Next question: Were they all dead? Yes. She made sure before heading to the plane and crawling inside.

No good for shelter—she would need another place. That was not her only need, however. There were crates of food in the back, her mind reminded her. She crawled toward them like a ravenous wolf hunting its prey.

Most had been destroyed. The ones that hadn't held a few loaves of stale bread. It would have to do. She cradled them in her arms and exited the craft.

Where to go?

There were no trees for miles around. Blast. She would be too visible. She needed somewhere to hide.

In the distance there looked to be some sort of structure on a small hill. Hopefully uninhabited. It was worth checking out. She began the trek, but not before grabbing a coat off a cadaver and wrapping it around her neck to stop the river of blood.

The walk took longer than she expected, and the moon moved halfway across the sky before she reached her destination. Every few feet she gnawed on bread to calm the aching in her stomach.

The structure turned out to be a barn. Down the other side of the hill was a house, and near that a second, larger barn. She couldn't tell if anyone still lived in the building at the foot of the hill. There was no light in the windows, but everyone would've been asleep anyway.

She went into the circular barn and hid behind a stack of hay. She lay back on it and put the bread on her stomach. The hay scratched her skin and irritated her already throbbing wounds, but she didn't have any other choice. She couldn't find another place; she had no strength left.

One more bite of bread.

Think of a way out; where to go next?

No time to think.

No strength to think.

Sleep. Enjoy the precious sleep.

 _They can't find you. They can't._

 _They won't._

 _They will._


	6. Chapter 2-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 2.3 * * ***

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With what little strength he had left, he shoved the mound of snow off his body. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In.

He closed his eyes.

 _Don't stop. Keep going. You'll freeze. Push forward. March, soldier. One in a millions faces. March on._

He stood, shaking the white dust off his body. It clung to his eyelashes, his gloves, his nose. Every part of him, covered and uncovered.

Thank goodness for the parka.

Even with it, he was bound to freeze soon. Keep going.

He ran without looking back.

He knew, anyway: they were all dead. And if not yet, they would be. They didn't keep moving.

Where was he going? He had no idea.

But he kept going, away from the mountain, away from the avalanche, away from the soldiers he hated.

No weapon. No food. If the temperature dropped any more, not even protection from the wind.

He wondered if his lips were blue.

 _Just stop to rest. . . ._

 _No! You'll die._

 _Do you really know that?_

 _You can't keep walking forever._

He would have to, though. He needed to keep going. Where? He had no idea.

For a second his vision pixelated. He jumped and rubbed his eyes, only to have everything return to normal. He shook his head and kept walking.

Shivers. Coughing. Struggling to put one foot in front of another.

He couldn't go on like this forever.

 _Just a little rest._

 _Not for long._

He took another step and tripped. He sighed and pulled himself up next to a tree. Wrapping the jacket tighter around his body, he breathed out and watched the frost leave his lips.

Would someone come for him? He didn't know. He didn't care much, either.

 _Get up. Keep going. Don't stop. You'll freeze. You'll die._

He looked up, looked down, and watched everything go black.

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 **I've gotten a lot of reviews saying, "I feel so bad for A/B/C! How awful!" Well, I suppose that just highlights the difference between the readers and the author. I'm sitting over here and saying to myself, "What are they talking about? What I'm posting now is so mild! I haven't even gotten to the intense stuff yet . . ."**


	7. Chapter 3-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 3.1 * * ***

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He picked up a nail with his left hand—the only part of his body that didn't constantly cause him pain. He stared at it and curled his fingers around the precious piece of metal.

Words decorated the walls of his cell: some pleading, some obscene, some insane. All written by former residents, and all of whom he doubted were still alive.

His hand shook as he lifted the nail. Would he add his voice to the mix of tortured souls? Could he be so brave?

He touched to tip of the nail to the wall and paused. Then. . . .

 _To destroy you is no loss._

He observed his handiwork, written over old, unreadable thoughts from his predecessors.

 _To destroy you is no loss._

The second looked even better. He could not write well left-handed, but beautiful cursive was not his goal.

 _To destroy you is no loss._

 _To destroy you is no loss._

 _To destroy you is no loss._

Again and again; words he had heard again and again for what seemed like decades.

"To keep you is no benefit; to destroy you is no loss."

A slogan of the Khmer Rouge, destroyers of Cambodia. Now a slogan of the Revisionaries, destroyers of America.

 _To destroy you is no loss._

 _To destroy you is no loss._

Children screaming. Mothers pleading. Fathers protecting—to the death.

The nail fell from his hand.

How many times had he believed those words? Far too often. Not only that _his_ destruction would be no loss, but that the destruction of others would be no loss either. He had been brainwashed into brainwashing others.

He picked up the nail again.

 _To destroy you is no loss._

He wanted to write it as many times as it had been told to him—his brain said there wasn't enough room in all the world for that many words.

As he wrote the phrase for the eleventh time, the door opened. "Pathetic."

Off to noplace again.

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 **Inspiration: "To Destroy You Is No Loss" by Teeda Butt Mam.**

 **I apologize if the last handful of chapters have been a bit slow. The next chapters will really pick up the plots for all three stories, so stay tuned.**


	8. Chapter 3-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 3.2 * * ***

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She woke up with a new understanding of pain—no, of course not. She was a soldier. A soldier for a corrupt army, no less. Pain was not a new thing, and this, this tingling in the back of her neck, was _nothing_.

Some creature must've snuck in during the night, because when she reached to take a bite of bread she found the only food she possessed gone. It did not shock her, only disappointed her.

 _Life goes on_.

She sat up and saw the red stain on the jacket underneath her body. When she lifted it, she found that the blood had seeped through even to the straw. The crimson spot was as big around as her fist and few dozen shades darker. _Nothing._ She moved the straw around in case someone else decided to poke around the barn later.

She stood and discovered a new problem brought on by a combination of blood loss and hunger. Her knees went weak and her vision blurred and the ground became her new location.

Minor setback.

She was a soldier. She could push through this.

She stood, wobbled for a few feet, and fell again.

Something was wrong. She needed a moment to figure out what, but her rushing thoughts were interrupted by voices.

 _Voices._

She crawled back behind the hay, and just in time.

"I still say we should tear this old place down." A man.

"I agree, but you're never gonna convince Ma of that." A teenage boy.

"Well, if she doesn't agree by the harvest, I'm tearing it down by myself. This place'll make for excellent firewood this winter."

"We don't need it for anything else."

"Exactly. The horses like the new one much better. 'Sides, we should probably destroy it before the planes do it for us."

"But if they get this barn, won't they shoot the house, too?"

"'Course. Hmm . . . maybe we should leave it up. If we see this barn blow on the hill, we might have a chance of leaving the house 'fore they blow _us_ to kingdom come."

They went on for a few more minutes, arguing for and against the uses of the barn. It was an entirely useless conversation, one the would be forgotten in a few weeks and made no impact on a significant portion of the population.

Yet, she adored it. It was the first useless conversation she had heard in years; the first that revolved around day-to-day choices instead of out-and-out war. It was simplistic and beautiful and came from human beings with empathy instead of monsters with enmity.

She was so enthralled with the words, in fact, that she failed to realize the steps had gotten gradually closer.

She sank to the ground and willed herself to become invisible—which meant a great deal more for her than most people.

Unlike other—normal, she should say—people, she felt quite shocked when she _couldn't_ turn invisible.

In an effort to harness a power she'd had since she was forced into the army and now suddenly couldn't activate, she let out a soft grunt.

The conversation above her stopped, and she froze.

"Did ya hear that?" the boy whispered.

"Uh-huh."

"Rabbit get in here again?"

"Whatever it is, I bet it tastes mighty fine in a stew."

 _If you don't like foods with GMOs, you definitely won't like me_ , she thought with a bitter sarcasm that rang with truths.

She held her breath as they crept closer, probably believing they were on the hunt for something to prepare for dinner.

"Papa, Papa, Timmy scared the horses again!" a girl shrieked outside the entrance to the barn. "Matilda's going _crazy_ , Papa!"

The man groaned. "Come on, Jacob. Timothy Hunt! You leave those horses alone, young man!"

They were gone, and she could finally breathe again.

Nonetheless, it wasn't safe. The barn seemed virtually unused, but they could still come back. If they found her, no doubt they would turn her in—or kill her on the spot. She wouldn't blame them if they chose the latter.

She stood a third time, looked at the door, collapsed on the hay, and closed her eyes.


	9. Chapter 3-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 3.3 * * ***

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He woke up with a muzzle on his chest.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled through frozen lips as he attempted to push the gun away. It stayed, solid as a rock, and finally he looked up. "Come to kill me?"

"Stay down," the man at the other end of the rifle said.

"No problem . . . I think my legs are frozen to the ground." He moved to stretch, and the barrel dug its way further into his chest.

"Stay put, 'visionary."

He looked up into the faces of the men around him. Five stood nearby, each with a rifle of their own. They had their weapons trained on him. One wrong move and he would be shot full of lead.

"US Army," he mumbled, noting the insignias on their jackets. "You guys are better . . . better than Krane's army, I guess."

"Silence, prisoner," the one with the rifle pointed at his chest growled. That one must've been the leader, he thought.

"Prisoner? I like that."

"Like it?" The soldier looked taken aback.

"Yeah. You can't be much worse than the other guys . . . I was _their_. . . prisoner?" He said the word like he wasn't sure if it was the right one, even though he knew it was. Strange . . . his brain felt slower than usual.

"Get up. We're taking you back to base."

 _Overpower them. They're enemies. Release your anger. Enemies. Destroy them. They're no match for you._

He bowed his head and stood.

They surrounded him without saying a word and started leading him through the woods. They all had their guns pointed at his back. They sure thought _he_ was the enemy.

"I always wanted to join you guys," he said.

"Silence."

"Really. But I couldn't."

"I said silence."

"Nah . . . I'm really glad you're trying to . . . to bring down the 'visionaries."

"And why's that? You're one of them."

"Not by choice."

"That true?" another soldier to his right asked.

He looked over, surprised that the others could speak. "Uh-huh. We were forced."

"We?"

"Mmm. We . . . yeah, we."

"What we? All of you?"

"No . . . just _we_." What we was he talking about? Him and two others . . . but what two others?

They kept going in silence, the other soldiers throwing each other glances every now and then. Their knees met strong opposition in the snow, but trained soldiers pushed through it like water.

He should've done the same. He didn't. He couldn't.

His legs worked against him, and he couldn't find it in himself to put one foot in front of the other. A simple task, and he could not do it.

The other soldiers noticed him struggling and only pushed him harder.

The wind seemed cold . . . but he couldn't feel it anymore. He couldn't do a lot of things.

He felt hot. _Excruciatingly_ hot. A few minutes ago his teeth had been chattering, but now all he wanted to do was strip off his parka and dive into the ice at his feet. The only thing stopping him was his unusual lack of strength.

His chest radiated pain as his heart raced, but he couldn't draw a proper breath. There was something wrong . . . but what?

He watched the snow blur in front of him. "You guys . . ." He swallowed. "I think . . . I think you . . . saved me."

He fell face-first into the snow, heard the men shout, heard the gunshot. The _bang_ was the last sound to ring through his ears.

* * *

 **Sources: WebMD and Mayo Clinic.**


	10. Chapter 4-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

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 *** * * Chapter 4.1 * * ***

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He came to consciousness all at once, and the first thing he knew was that water ran underneath him. His cheek and the whole right side of his body dripped when he stood. He wiped off his face and looked around.

It was a tunnel, something akin to a sewer. The water—a river a few inches wide—snaked along the bottom, and small drops fell from the ceiling and slammed into the stone below.

"Hello?" he called. No answer. He looked behind and in front, and finally he began to walk forward. There didn't seem to be any other choice.

He puddled through the tunnel, listening to the constant dripping and hoping for another sound—the atmosphere felt too eerie for his taste.

As he continued walking, he noticed a door to his left. He approached cautiously and took hold of the handle. He tugged, but it refused to open. After a few more futile tries, he noticed a small window an inch or so above his eye level. He stood on his tip-toes and peered into the room.

A girl slept on a pile of hay, her hands folded under her head and her face twisted in pain and fear. He recognized the scene immediately: it was the same girl—the same barn—from the story he had been shown over the past few days. It was the exact spot he had seen her last. She looked familiar . . . he still couldn't place his finger on it.

The girl didn't move, not even to breathe, and for a moment he was worried. He hoped that the scene was only frozen in time, and that she had not died. He had grown rather fond of her and her story, and he didn't want it to end so soon.

Then, just as he got ready to leave, he noticed something else in the shadows: a young boy. He couldn't have been older than twelve. He stood, watching the girl with ferocious curiosity. He, too, stayed still, not even batting an eyelash.

The young man stepped away from the door and rubbed his eyes. He wondered if that boy would show up when he saw the girl next. It couldn't be long now . . . he figured he was in the middle of a mind game, and those usually preceded the stories.

It didn't take long before he came upon another door, this one on the right side of the tunnel. It, too, had a window, and the sight he saw did not shock him in the least.

There, right on the other side of the door, stood five soldiers, all frozen in the middle of their screams. On the ground lay another young man. He stayed still also, but for different reasons. The pool of blood he lay in sharply contrasted the snow and, in a tragic way, looked beautiful.

The boy stepped away from the second door with a sigh. He liked the man on the ground. Like the girl, he hoped he would be okay.

He continued down the tunnel, not sure of what he wanted to find. An exit? An answer? A hope?

A few more feet brought him to another door. He furrowed his brow. He had only been shown two stories. Why was there a third door?

He stepped up to the window and looked inside. The other side was a small cell, and in the center sat a boy. His back faced the window, so his face was not to be seen. He sat in front of the wall, and he looked to be scratching something on it.

The boy at the window gasped and stumbled backward. Instead of falling into shallow water, he fell further and further until he found himself in noplace.

Maybe that meant that he would be shown the stories—Visions? Hallucinations? Dreams?—soon; maybe that meant he would find the answers.


	11. Chapter 4-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 4.2 * * ***

* * *

She would've screamed. Maybe she should've. She didn't.

The boy with bright green eyes looked directly into hers. They sat, locked in time, staring at each other in the dim light from the boy's match.

"Are you an alien?" he whispered with awe.

She couldn't help but smile; beauty revealed itself best in childish innocence.

"No," she replied. Her voice sounded foreign even to her; she hadn't heard it in many days.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got lost."

"Why are you bleeding?"

She gingerly touched her neck. It burned as all get out, but what could be done? Hope for healing had vanished long ago.

"I . . . I fell." It wasn't a lie.

"Why are you afraid?"

She cocked her head. "Why are you so wise?"

"Answer me first."

"Do you want to kill me?"

"You answered with a question."

"I did."

"No. I don't want to kill you. Are there people that do?"

"A lot of them."

"Why?"

"Because . . . they want me to fight for them. And they want me to pay if I won't."

He nodded. "You're a 'visionary."

She chose not to reply. She caught him looking her over; she must've looked a sight. No wonder he guessed alien: she gave every indication of one. Radiation could make a person appear as something other than human, she supposed.

"I don't like the 'visionaries."

"I don't either."

"Did you run away?"

"Not quite. Their plane crashed, and I survived."

"You seem like a good person."

"I used to be."

"You still could be."

"It's no use. They'll come find me first chance they get."

"You can't run away?"

"They'll just track me."

"How?"

"I . . ." Well, she might as well tell a twelve-year-old her secrets. It seemed that he would find out soon enough anyway. "I have a chip in my neck. They can track me with that."

"Are you sure?"

She laughed—not happily. "I've had it all my life. Yes, I'm sure."

The boy stood and moved around her. He knelt down by the hay and sifted through it. He picked something up and illuminated it with his match.

She gasped and leaned closer. She watched the light reflect off the minuscule fragment of metal. The bright, silvery surface could only be seen on the few spots not coated in blood. Her hand flew to her neck.

"Your chip?" the boy asked.

"That's only a piece of it; it's much bigger than that."

"It's a piece. It's broken."

Her hands shook. What did this mean? What kind of freedom did she now have? Would her injury turn out to be more serious than she initially thought?

Every question flew out of her mind, and a sort of numbed exhilaration replaced them. She had only one thought, and though she didn't know where it came from or why it was important, she said it anyway:

"Do you know how to get to California?"


	12. Chapter 4-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 4.3 * * ***

* * *

The bright light swung back and forth in a nauseating rhythm. He wanted to ignore it, but somehow it hypnotized him.

The trance broke only when a young woman around his age walked up to his bedside.

"Where am I?" he hissed.

"Base 5610," she rattled off.

"US Army?"

"Yes, sir."

He chuckled. "Sir. Who are you?"

She looked at him. Her blonde hair fell in front of her chocolatey eyes as she moved to the head of the bed, her skirt swishing around her knees. "My name is Emily."

"Pretty."

She sucked in her breath. "What's your name?"

"That's a good question."

"You don't know?"

"Uh-uh."

She looked shocked. "You don't _remember_?"

"Oh, no . . . I haven't known if for a long time. I think I used to have a name . . . but I haven't remembered it in _years_."

She nodded and visibly calmed. "So not because of your condition?"

 _Condition? What condition?_

He looked around and realized that his bed was situated among several dozen just like it, all in one room with partitions on wheels and shades on the windows. He also became aware of the fact that his neck smarted bad enough that he wanted to use one of his companions' colorful adjectives, as well as the straps attached to the bed that held his arms in place so that he was incapable of movement.

"What's going on?" he growled.

Fear gripped Emily's face for a moment. "You're not exactly our ally. I'm sorry, but we can't let you be free. Not yet."

He quit his thrashing. "I understand." He did. Really. It was unusual, but he did understand. "So . . . why did I pass out?" He remembered bits and pieces—more than he wanted.

"Hypothermia."

"In English?"

She smiled. "You got too cold. How long were you out there?"

"I dunno. Hours? I got stuck in an avalanche and—"

"Avalanche? You're lucky to be alive!"

"Maybe. I dunno, I knew someone who survived an avalanche once."

"Really?"

"Really," he mumbled. "But . . . but who?" He frowned and looked up, but that motion only served to make the pain in his neck intensify. He yelped, and then said, "And how about my neck?"

Emily blushed. "Sergeant Hawks got nervous when you fell. His bullet nicked you just above your shoulder, and you lost some blood. We got you patched up as soon as you came in. It should be good in a few weeks."

"You really shouldn't have brought me here," he said. "A beautiful face like yours doesn't deserve to be destroyed."

"Are you saying you plan to destroy us?"

"No, not me. The people who will come for me."

"Don't worry; we can protect ourselves."

"Don't be so sure about that."

Emily opened her mouth to say something, but she decided against it. She ambled over to the nightstand next to the bed and picked up a bloodstained towel with small, metal slivers on it. "I have other patients to see," she said. "I'll be back later. Call if you need something."

"Wait!" he said. "What is that?" He gestured to the towel with his chin.

"Oh, it was the strangest thing: when we cleaned off your neck, we found these bits of metal coming out with the blood. Dr. Trengove thought it must be from the bullet, though the sergeant said he found the bullet intact in the snow. He must've been mistaken."

"I guess so," he mumbled.

Emily nodded and began to walk away once more, but he had something else he needed to say.

"Wait! A."

"Excuse me?"

"A. You can call me A."

* * *

 **By the way, PurpleNicole531 said something that made me realize I should clarify this: x.1 chapters are _always_ C, x.2 chapters are _always_ B, and x.3 chapters are _always_ A. No exceptions. I won't always use their names, but that's the way it is every time. Just to make sure there's no confusion.**


	13. Chapter 5-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 5.1 * * ***

* * *

"What is the point of those stories?" he asked, pushing back against the man's grip as much as he dared.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean. Why do you show those to me? The boy . . . and the girl. A and B. Who are they? Why do you only show me parts at a time?"

The man cuffed the boy—something he hardly felt at this point.

"I know they're in the army," he whispered, undeterred by the hit. "They're 'visionaries. Are they real?"

"Be quiet."

"Who are they?"

"You ask too many questions."

"You think that's an accident?"

The man stayed silent, not bowing to the boy's wish of answers. It was no surprise, unfortunately.

The two walked down the hall, back to the boy's cell, he presumed. His presumptions proved to be wrong when he was led down another hallway, a different hallway—one he'd never been down before.

Immediately his face flushed and his heart sped up. Different hallways _never_ meant anything good.

"Where are we going?"

A hand collided with his head, and this time he found himself on the ground, too disoriented to stand. Someone grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet. "Pathetic," the man hissed in his ear.

He blinked as he was guided into a small, dark room—like every other room in the facility. Two guards stood in the back, but the centerpiece of the room was a sort of upright table. Of course, it didn't appear to be any ordinary table. It looked to be equipped with a plethora of gadgets he chose not to identify out of paralyzing fear.

"What's that?" He swallowed, his throat dry as ever. He already knew the answer to his question.

"Our newest torture device." The man moved around him and patted the table. "If it works, we have a wonderful new way to extract information from our enemies. Now, if only we had someone to test it on." A sickening grin slid across the man's face, accompanied by the sickening feeling that entered the boy's stomach.

"I'm your lab rat." It wasn't a question.

"You're a highly trained soldier. If it hurts you, it'll hurt anyone."

"What _information_ do you want to extract from me?"

"You'll find out. Strap in, C."

He climbed up—not that he had much of a choice. Cuffs locked around his wrists and ankles. His scrawniness didn't save him from their death-like grip. He watched various devices move into place around his body. Things began to crackle and hiss, and he bit his lip in preparation for searing pain.

The man walked up and stared him in the face. "You're going to answer all my questions."

"I don't see how I have anything to hide from you."

"Really? Did you take those bullets on purpose?"

It had started. He screamed.

* * *

 **Inspiration** **: _Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back_ and "Feed the Machine" music video by Red.**


	14. Chapter 5-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 5.2 * * ***

* * *

She blinked and shivered, fearing for her life. It wasn't something new to her, but this time her fear didn't manifest itself in strange people in lab coats hovering over her sedated body.

The wound had gotten worse. She felt cold, not able to determine whether that came from inside or outside of her body. She felt dazed, confused, and unsure of what to do next. Medical treatment was out of the question, and what other options did she have?

Funny how, out of everything she'd been through, she would die by a cut on her neck.

 _What kind of way is that to think, B? You'll survive. You've survived worse._

She didn't know if it was true, but hope was all she had left.

Timothy—she'd learned that the boy's name was Timothy—came back in, this time with several strips of linen in his hands.

"I thought you could use this," he said in a low voice.

"Thank you." She smiled, tried to sit up, and failed.

He knelt down beside her, wrapping the linen around her neck. It was far from ideal, but it was better than nothing. Prior to Timothy's entrence, she'd used every inch of her clothing to press on the wound, and looking at her shirt you'd think she'd been shot in the chest.

"This can't be good," the boy whispered to her, "but I don't know what else I can do. Do you want me to tell my momma?"

"No, please. No one else needs to know I'm here."

"If you get much worse, I will tell someone."

"You'll only put them in danger."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive. I'm dangerous to everyone." She stared off into the distance, her mind attempting to chase after memories she no longer had. "I've always been that way."

Timothy continued wrapping in silence, his touch gentle. She appreciated it; for years the only time a person had touched her was to slap her, so though she wanted to recoil at another human's hand, she found it deep in her heart to trust this child.

"I should leave soon," she said after a few minutes.

"Where are you going to go? California?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I . . . I don't know. I think there's someone there I know."

"You think? That's very far away to go just because you _think_ something."

"Okay, I _know_ that someone is there waiting for me. I just don't know who. My family, maybe? Or my friends. People I trust . . . I'm sure of that much."

"You can't leave now."

"No, I guess I can't, at that."

"Do you need something to eat?"

"That would be wonderful."

"I'll be right back. Momma made bread this afternoon, and I think we've got milk, too. That'll help you get better so you can get to California."

"I appreciate your help, Timothy."

"You're welcome." He stood to go, but he paused before he did. "Do you have a name?"

She sighed. "Not a good one. The only thing they ever called me was _B_."

"B, huh? Just the letter?"

"Just the letter. I've never been more than a letter to them. It would've been a number, but I think they got B from who I used to be. Something from . . . from my life before _them_."

Timothy nodded. "I understand. Papa says these are bad days."

"He's not wrong."

"I know. You're proof. I'll be back in a few minutes, B. Don't go anywhere." He ran out of the barn without looking back.

She chuckled. "I don't think I could go even if I wanted to."

 _He's only a child, and he's still caught up in this war. Two groups trying to destroy everything his parents grew up with and loved—and I'm a part of one of them. One other group fighting the good fight to bring their two enemies down, but they're suffering for it. Even their children are suffering._

She shivered and leaned back again. Her neck felt better bound, but that didn't stop the pulsing pain.

Her initial thoughts at the discovery of the broken chip were to rejoice, seeing as how the thing that had held her back for so long no longer had a grip on her. Yet, at the same time, that same device used to control her also had the potential to save her life. Without it, she was nearly as weak as any other man.

She could only hope that in all their excruciating manipulation of her DNA, they had found a way to give her endurance beyond her chip.

If not, death would soon welcome another victim into its cold arms.


	15. Chapter 5-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 5.3 * * ***

* * *

He stared ahead, his face blank and his mouth open. Every second an old thought pounded his skull: _Get out_.

It had been three wonderful days. He'd been cared for, given food and rest, and perhaps even love—though what did he know about love? Still, the relentless ideas rattling around in his mind refused to leave him alone.

 _Get out. You're a danger. Get up. Keep going. Don't stop. Not for a moment. Keep moving, soldier. You don't belong here. Leave!_

"A?"

He looked up to see Emily, her blonde hair tied back and her dress spotless, as usual. She must've seen the contemplative look on his face, for her own smile wavered and fell, leaving her with a cold and professional demeanor. He didn't like that.

"Hi, Emily," he said with a smile. That brought back her usual cheerfulness.

"We thought it might be a good idea for you to get washed up. The doctors think you're better now, besides the gash in your neck. But even that is healing well. They thought you might like a nice, hot shower."

He squinted and tilted his head. "What's a shower?"

She chuckled into the back of her hand. "Yes, I think you need one. All we have are the locker rooms, but as far as I know, no one's in there."

"Are you taking me into the shower?"

Emily's face turned red. "Goodness gracious, no! I'll . . . I'll wait outside for you, though."

"You trust me enough to go in there by myself?"

"How much trouble can you cause in a locker room?"

He shrugged, but figured that protest was not in his best interest. Emily helped him off the bed—the restraints had been removed earlier when he was deemed not a threat—and led him down the hall. A few other nurses and patients wandered around, but not many. He was happy to see that.

"Do you guys see a lot of action up here?"

Emily shrugged. "Not a whole lot, surprisingly. There's a 'visionary base several miles away, but I don't think they know we're here. There've been rumors of Krane's army around here, though, so we might see fighting soon."

"You know I'm a 'visionary."

"Of course."

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

She opened her mouth for a moment, then closed it again. "One of my friends was in the group that found you. He told me what you said."

He laughed. "I don't even know what I said. I had hy-per-squirm-ia, remember?"

Emily laughed at him. "Hypothermia. Does that mean you weren't sincere?"

"No, I was. I really hate the 'visionaries. They make me do all those things."

Emily put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. She stood nearly a head shorter than him, so he looked down into her eyes while she stared up at him. "Do you think you could join us?" she asked.

"That's betrayal."

"I thought you said you hated them."

"I do. But I hate death more."

"We won't let them hurt you."

"You can't stop them."

"But we know how to—"

"Emily," he said, cutting her off. "You don't know them like I do. Look, I don't know what I'm going to do next, but I have to think about this carefully."

She nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry."

 _Move on. Keep going. Leave her behind. Leave them all behind. Run. Follow. Be a good little soldier. Don't stop. Keep going. You'll die._

They walked through another hallway, this time one that had a long, reflective surface along one wall. He froze for a moment, staring at the reflection of Emily and the strange man beside her.

"Is that me?" he asked, raising a shaky finger and pointing at the unfamiliar figure.

"Yes, A," she said. "That's you."

He studied his own face: the long scars that ran over his chin, the dirty hair blacker than night, the hard brown eyes that stared back at him. He fingered the bandage on his neck and watched his reflection do the same. The emotions coursing through him ranged from horror to fascination.

"You don't even know what a shower is," Emily said. "When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"

"It's . . . it's been ages. Not since . . ." He swallowed. "Where's the locker room?"

"Through this door right here," Emily said, leading him forward. "I'll wait out here for you."

He nodded and pushed it open, but before he could walk into the room, he turned back and looked at her. "Emily . . . thank you. And . . . I'm sorry for whatever happens next." She might've tried to question him, but he had already closed the door.

* * *

 **I've been on this site for two years. It seems appropriate that I'm posting a new chapter of one of my favorite stories today. (And hey, look, there's that line from the final sentence in the summary. I wonder why it's important . . .?)**


	16. Chapter 6-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 6.1 * * ***

* * *

Was this what death felt like? He felt sure it was.

Everything looked fuzzy. Every part of his body hurt. Tears involuntarily streamed down his face, but he had no voice to scream with—not anymore. His screams had run out hours ago, leaving his throat dry and pained.

The door opened and the man came in, a smirk on his face. "We broke you," he whispered. "Now we'll break others."

He looked up, licking the blood off his lip. The words stuck in his throat, and his vocal cords refused to form a response.

"Do you have anything to say, C?" the man asked, the mocking smirk only growing. "You're as pathetic as ever."

His chest heaved, and he could feel the sweat dripping from his brow. He had so many things to say, but he settled on one; the only response he deemed safe: "What . . . what ever happened . . . to . . . to . . . Graham?" He gasped for air, that one sentence draining him of all energy.

The man's smirk vanished, replaced only by a questioning glare. "You were just tortured for six hours and that's what you ask?"

"I . . . never . . . knew."

"The man that betrayed you?"

He opted for a nod, longing for a cool drink to ease his suffering.

"Well, as you know, Graham handed you over to us after he learned what the government wanted to do with you. He thought we would be on his side if he betrayed our enemies, but he was mistaken. He's long gone, C. He died at the start of this war, caught between Krane, us, and the angry democracy he turned against."

"You . . . betrayed _him_?"

"We did. He gave you to us, but he served no purpose beyond that. No point in wasting our time with a sniveling traitor like him."

He looked down, unsure of how to feel. Graham betrayed him—he knew that. Graham had uprooted him from the old life he no longer remembered and taken him here. Though he had no memories of how Graham caught him or why, only vague concepts, he knew that the agent had hurt him—and maybe others?

"Why are you asking about him?"

"Because . . . because I never thought to ask before."

"Do you have any other questions?"

"Who . . . who are the people . . . in the stories?"

"You'll find out one day."

"Why won't . . . won't you tell me?"

The man walked up until they stood eye-to-eye. "You're pathetic," he said through clenched teeth, and the boy got another smack on the cheek. Normally he didn't even care, but after hours of multiple forms of torture, it smarted worse than ever before.

"You asked," he whispered, averting his gaze.

"You will find out more about the stories as they go on. Patience, C. You'll know eventually." The man took a needle off the table and jabbed it into the boy's arm, causing him to yelp. "You'll need something to do as you heal, after all."

The man released the restraints without another word. The boy found himself falling to the floor with no control of his limbs. He desired to get up, but his body conspired against him. A wave of panic washed over him when he realized that he was paralyzed.

Several strong hands came down to pick him up, supporting even his head, since he couldn't hold it up himself. They dragged him down the hall, and while he wanted to protest, he couldn't make a sound.

He soon found himself outside the familiar door to his cell. They tossed him inside like a sack of flour, leaving him in a motionless, agonized heap on the floor. He wondered how long he would have to stay like this before he could move again to regain any amount of comfort.

Then, after he thought all the guards had long gone, a pair of gentle hands rolled him over onto his back. He looked up into the face belonging to those hands, and an odd feeling started to nag at him. It was like something from another life, a dream of sorts—the past, or what his future could've been. It was nostalgia, but nostalgia for something that never happened.

A girl hovered above him, her long, dark brown hair dangling beside his face. Her darker brown eyes stared at him and expressed the feeling he had inside.

He knew her. She knew him. How, they didn't remember. Neither of them did. He could tell she felt the same way he did, full of confusion and fear and curiosity.

She picked up his hand and placed it on his chest, not saying a word. Her eyes never left his, and her comforting touch almost made him forget the pain.

Someone outside called a name—or was it a number?—and she stood. She looked back down at him, sympathy in her gaze. He watched as the girl he knew but didn't remember turned to go, remaining silent as she shut the door behind her.

 _Like something from a dream . . . or a life unlived . . ._

* * *

 **Graham is dead. Mystery Girl is a canon character. This is easily C's worst chapter (physically, anyway). Enjoying yourselves so far?**

 **Inspiration: _Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back_ and "Feed the Machine" music video by Red.**


	17. Chapter 6-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 6.2 * * ***

* * *

"I've been here too long," she mumbled, twisting her fingers in directions they were hardly meant to go. She pressed the bandage on her neck—the wound had been cleaned yesterday with a pail of water from Timothy. She felt better, somehow, and hoped for healing.

She took a bite of the bread the boy had brought her, and then she stuffed it into the pocket of her pants. It would be useful later.

She stood, took a deep breath, and hobbled forward. She made more progress than on previous attempts, but she still had twelve hundred miles to go before she got to her destination.

Why was California so important to her, anyway?

She made it to the door of the barn and was about to step out into the crisp night air when Timothy ran up to her. "What are you doing?" he hissed, glancing down the hill at his house and the light streaming through the kitchen windows.

"I need to go," she said. "The longer I'm here, the more dangerous it is—for me and for you."

"But I thought your chip wasn't an issue anymore!"

"They have other ways to find me. I can't stay here for so long."

"But you're still hurt!"

"I'm getting better."

"Not better enough. I've seen enough sick horses to know that healing takes time."

She rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry, Timothy. I need to go."

"But—"

"I need to do this."

He nodded, his face too solemn for a child. "At least let me help you. Wait in the barn; I'll be back in one hour."

She began to protest, but she bit her lip and agreed. She could use the help, after all.

She went back into the barn to wait, trying to find ways to occupy herself. The two constant things over the last few days had been the pain and the _boredom_.

California . . . why California? Did she know someone there? She thought so. It rung a bell in her mind; it sounded safe. She knew California. Where in California? She could only hope that information would come later.

She closed her eyes, hoping for a flash, a memory, anything. She tried harder than any time before: _remember_.

Nothing. Nothing. Never anything. Zilch. Nada. Zero. No memories, no her.

What she did know were vague feelings, a wistful recollection of something she could never quite identify. She had a family, somewhere—or at least she thought so. She used to have a home, and she used to have a life. Whether happy or sad, she didn't know.

An agent—Graham; she remembered his name: Graham—took her away from all that. He gave her over to the 'visionaries not long before the war started. In fact, she thought he was at least partially responsible for the war.

The 'visionaries sent her—and her family?—out to fight against the government in their little rebellion. She also helped them fend off Krane—someone else she was sure she knew in a different life—who started his own rebellion, using kids like her.

She was on side three of a war when she didn't want to be involved at all.

Where had her life gone wrong?

Timothy came back and interrupted her thoughts, which must have been going for longer than she thought. She'd reviewed all she knew of her life, and she figured that if she couldn't recall old memories, she could at least make new ones.

"Timothy, you didn't have to do this," she said as he handed her a bag, which she soon found had more bread, something that looked like beef jerky, a few eggs—he said they were boiled—, a canteen full of water, and a few other odds and ends that might come in handy, including more strips of linen for bandages.

"You need it more than me," he whispered. "And you need this, too." He handed her some money—around thirty dollars, she estimated. "I've been saving it for a while, but I don't know what to do with it. You take it."

"I can't do this," she said, handing it back.

"Please."

"No! All these supplies are enough. I can't imagine I'd need money for anything."

He shrugged. "A bus? If you want to go all the way to California, you'll need something."

"I can't take it."

He looked down and shoved it into his pocket. "Fine." He sighed—a deep, mature sigh that sounded like it came from someone three times his age. "You can at least let me take you as far as McPherson, right? It's the closest big city. I want to make sure you get there okay."

She straightened and put her hands on her hips. "I guess I can't stop you from doing that. Seriously, Timothy, this is too much. You've been too kind to me."

"Momma says it pays to be good, and I think you can use all the good you can get."

She slung the bag over her shoulder and gave a half-hearted smile. "Ain't that the truth."

* * *

 **The war is the Revisionaries (aka the 'visionaries) vs. Krane's bionic army vs. the government of the United States. The 'visionaries and Krane are both trying to overthrow the government, but they each have different visions of how they want it to go. Meaning: all of this is a free-for-all that never seems to end and hurts everyone involved. Fun, huh?**


	18. Chapter 6-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * Chapter 6.3 * * ***

* * *

He liked showers, he decided. Especially after the avalanche and passing out in the snow—twice—he appreciated the warm water running all over his body. He put on the new clothes Emily had given him: loose pants, a t-shirt, and a warm jacket, since temperatures even inside could drop lower than many people liked.

He checked the bandage in another mirror—a convenience he decided he did _not_ like. He had been careful to keep the white strip from becoming wet, and, while difficult, he had succeeded.

Things seemed good. Almost hot water, a sweet girl waiting to take care of him, new clothes—but it would come crashing down before he could say, "See, Emily?"

It started with the odd feeling in his stomach. He'd had it for a long time, but it became more prevalent as he showered, got dressed, and now as he stood in front of the mirror observing the stalwart soldier in front of him.

Then came the rumbling. Then came the screams—not of people, but of engines. The screams of humans would come soon enough, he knew.

Another door opposite the one he came in through led outside. He threw it open and ran out into the snow. The only thing in front of him was a large wall with barbed wire on the top. To his right and left were other buildings, most with people streaming out of them. They didn't have long to question what was going on before the first bomb dropped.

Literally.

He ducked for cover by the wall, knowing exactly what an airstrike entailed. They would aim for the buildings, so he dove for the fence and ran to the corner. As he ran over the snow, he found himself thankful for the warm shoes Emily had provided him. There was no going back in the building now.

He shrunk into the corner, staring without emotion at the carnage as buildings blew open and chunks of cement scattered. He watched as soldiers ran to man their stations, but they all moved far too late.

The planes buzzed overhead, their whining screech driving fear into the hearts of their victims—a strategic move, and why they opted out of noiseless engines.

A spot in the fence several feet away collapsed as it surrendered to another strike, and he saw it as his opportunity. He rushed towards it, longing for an escape before he too was blown to kingdom come.

He stopped only for a moment by the infirmary, now only a heap of ashes and concrete. No one in that building could've survived the direct hit it received.

 _No one_.

He crawled through the fence, unseen by the trained U.S. soldiers fighting to defend their country—and their lives.

Once in the clear, he headed into the nearby forest. Unable to pull himself away quite yet, he watched as the planes continued the first assault, and then looked to the distance where foot soldiers moved in to finish the job.

He sat, helpless among the bushes, as the people who had captured and yet helped him fought as hard as they could, only to fall one-by-one to their knees.

He couldn't stay. The other army—'visionaries, yes, that was who they were—would come, would find him, would do something worse than death to him. He supposed it was unavoidable, but now that he'd had a little taste of freedom, he wanted to put off his certain doom for as long as fate would allow.

With one last glance, he stood, wrapped his jacket tighter around his body, and walked away, being sure to cover his tracks as he went.

 _Get up. Keep moving. Leave it all behind. Don't stop. Never stop. Good soldier. Obey, submit, and bow down. Keep going. You'll freeze. You'll die. Or worse._

 _Leave them all behind. Don't think about her. She meant nothing to you. None of them meant anything to you. Leave them behind._

 _Keep moving._

* * *

 **To answer a question from Susz, yes, this story is entirely prewritten. A's, B's, and C's fates are all sealed.**


	19. Chapter 7-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 7.1 * * ***

* * *

The helmet was removed, and he sucked in the beautiful oxygen—something that seemed never to be present in noplace.

He stayed silent as the man stood there, not saying a word. They looked at each other for a moment, daring one another with their eyes to speak first.

"Well?" the man said.

"Well what?"

"Here's the part where you ask me why I show you those stories."

"You never give me an answer. I didn't think it was worth it."

The man smirked. "You're learning. Nonetheless, did you find them interesting?"

He shrugged. "The girl's part was boring this time." _Except when she was wondering who she really is. At least I'm not the only one who feels that way._ "But the boy . . . is that real? Did your army blow up the base?"

"I don't run the army. It's as much mine as yours."

An unwelcome shiver snaked down his spine. "He's grown cold."

"And the girl hasn't?"

"No, her too."

"And what about you?"

His head jerked up. Him? _Him_? Had he gone cold? Was he as indifferent as the characters—or real people—he saw in those stories? The people he knew . . . the people he thought he shared a connection with . . . had he grown as indifferent as them?

 _To destroy you is no loss._

"Do you need anything else from me today?"

"No. Someone will get you in the morning to play some more mind games."

Morning. He almost forgot such a thing existed.

Two people entered the room—one was the girl from before, the one he knew. Beside her was a boy, and he felt that odd feeling sneak through him again. He knew both of them from somewhere: from his life unlived.

The girl looked at him with that same look, a look of longing and desire for something she couldn't put a name to. The boy, however, looked stoic as any other guard, showing not the slightest hint of recognition.

"Come on, C," he said gruffly.

He did not regret having to leave the man and that cold chamber where his mind was stretched to the limit before he saw stories that kept him awake every night.

The three moved down the hall in silence, until the trapped subject decided to speak.

"Who are you two?"

"I don't know," the other boy said gruffly.

"Do you know who you are?" the girl asked.

"No, I don't. But . . . I think I know you."

"Keep walking," the boy barked. He had dark hair, like the girl, and he stood proud and tall as if he owned the very hallways they walked through.

"You know me," the subject hissed, fighting back against his guard's grip.

"You know he's right!" the girl said. They reached his cell, but they didn't go in yet. "We know him from somewhere. It's driving me crazy!"

"Yes, I know him!" the male guard said. "It's almost like we were friends, if we weren't here—but it's just a stupid feeling."

"So you do feel it. Something's off here." She turned toward the captive. "It's like . . . something out of a dream."

He squirmed around in the stronger boy's grasp. "Do you know each other?"

"Yes. We came in together."

"She's my sister," the boy whispered. "That's one of the only things I know."

The detainee allowed himself a smile. "That's what I thought. You two look like it."

"These aren't things we're supposed to talk about."

"These are things we need to talk about if we ever want to get out."

"I don't want to get out!"

The captive found himself thrown into his cell, surrounded by the cold, solid walls as always. The door slammed shut behind him, and he crawled up and struggled to hear through the thick metal.

"Why did you do that?" his sister yelled at him.

"Would you quit showing mercy? We're ordered to keep him in line!"

"But I think I know—"

"Stop that! I don't remember what our life was like before this, but it wasn't good. If _he_ was involved, it wasn't in a good way. Leave it be." There was silence for a moment before he chastised her once more and forced her to leave with him.

That left a boy alone in the cell, wondering about the brother-sister pair and why on earth he felt so attached to them.

* * *

 **Both the Brother and the Sister are canon characters. Ergo, I do not own them. (The Man, however, is an OC of my own making.)**


	20. Chapter 7-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 7.2 * * ***

* * *

They walked away from the barn with the tall grass swishing against their thighs. They didn't speak, allowing the silence to give them peace when their situation was anything but.

She looked at the small boy beside her and wondered if he remembered a time before the war. He couldn't have been but a child when it started—and yet, wasn't he still one now? A young boy on a farm in the middle of nowhere, and he still felt the effects of a world torn apart.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the wind, making sure Timothy couldn't hear her. She didn't want him to ask questions she had no answers to.

After walking about a mile or so away from the house, they came to a wide river. "We'll have to cross it to get to McPherson," Timothy said, wading in. "It's not that deep."

She removed her boots and rolled up her pants. No need to ruin her only outfit for a twelve-foot march through the rocks and mud under the stream.

The silence remained as they went, the only sound being the tide slapping their skin. About halfway through, she stopped and looked down.

The moon illuminated the night and not a cloud could be seen on the horizon. Between that and the stars, one could hardly call it _dark_. Thus, she could see her reflection well.

The white hair cascaded over her shoulders, the tips stained with blood. Her eyes luminesced with an eerie shade of green. Add to that the linen around her neck and the various stains on her face and clothes and you had quite a fiendish-looking creature.

At first glance, she gasped and stumbled back, regaining her balance at the last moment.

Timothy swung around and looked at her. "What?"

"Nothing, I just . . . I just saw myself in the river."

He looked down at her reflection, then back at her. "You don't know that that's what you look like?"

"I've had people tell me, but I've never seen it for myself."

"Really? When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"

She chuckled. "I hardly remember what a mirror is." Then a grave thought hit her, and the mirth left. "People are going to think I look strange." Beyond that, she feared that she would be recognized and handed back over to the 'visionaries. Her appearance would certainly be the thing to give her away, if indeed her chip no longer functioned.

"Lots of people dye their hair," Timothy said. "It's less strange than some hair I've seen."

"Yes, but . . ."

"You're worried you'll be recognized?"

She bit her lip and looked down at the frightening girl on the surface of the water.

"I have a baseball cap back home."

"No, we've already come this far. I'm sure if I keep my head down and don't make eye contact with anyone, I'll be all right."

Timothy nodded and motioned for her to follow him out of the river. She obeyed, but not before sneaking one last glance at herself and the mutant she had become. Her hair used to be the most beautiful shade of brown. . . .

As they walked, an idea hit her and she pulled out some of the linen strips. Tearing off a small section, she pulled back her matted hair into a tight ponytail. Timothy nodded in approval. It would not keep people from staring, but it would do well enough to keep it out of her face.

"How far is it?" she asked after a few moments.

"It'll take a little while," Timothy said. "It should be just over the horizon now. Maybe an hour or so away, if we pick up the pace."

They reached a paved road with trees on the other side, and that was when they heard it. It sounded like an explosion, and when they turned around, they discovered that to be no mere euphemism.

On the gentle hill where the barn once stood, the bright cloud of ash rose into the sky. Underneath that another cloud swelled—in the same spot as Timothy's house. The roaring of 'visionary planes grew distant as they climbed, leaving the destruction behind.

She looked down at the boy, unsure of how to react. He stood agape, too shocked to speak or move.

 _Sick people. How could they do that? Cruel people. I hate them._

Timothy was only a boy, but looking at the fire that raged through the plains, he had just become a man.

She reached down to comfort him, her eyes still fixed on the horrible sight. But it was then she caught view of the horizon, of the low-flying planes advancing in their direction.

She grabbed his hand and tugged. Mourning would have to wait.

* * *

 **I killed a twelve-year-old boy's family. I should probably feel bad about that.**

 **. . .**

 **Eh.**


	21. Chapter 7-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 7.3 * * ***

* * *

"Freeze!"

He obeyed, halting and hoping that this freeze would only be figurative. He spun on his heel to face the speaker, and he couldn't stop the laughter that bubbled up inside him.

Two children. They were two children, each with fists raised and scowls on their faces.

"Hey, don't laugh at us!" the smaller one said, his high-pitched voice eliciting more guffaws.

He studied the kids who must've been half his age. They looked to be in their young teens, if even that. His mirth subsided and he allowed sternness to take over. "Leave me alone, buddy. I've got places to go."

"You with the Army?" the larger and perhaps older kid said.

He shrugged. "What's it to you?"

The smaller kid raised his fists. "If you are, then you're our enemy!"

He couldn't help but laugh again. "Nah, I'm not with them." He scanned the kids. Definitely not Revisionary material. "I'm guessing I'm still your enemy, though."

The boy's fists got tighter. "'Visionary," he hissed.

"Bingo."

"Then we're definitely taking you prisoner!"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to spin you off the map!" He whirled around like a tornado to prove his point.

The older man yawned, unimpressed. "Try me, kiddo."

"S-224, help me take him down!" the small kid said. They rushed their enemy, but he didn't so much as budge.

"S-225, I don't know why I listen to you!" the larger kid howled eventually. "We shouldn't have left the base! I knew we weren't ready!"

"Stop talking like that," S-225 hissed while letting his puny fists fly. "We've got him."

"No, you don't," their adversary said. "So, you kids are bionic?"

"What do you think?" S-224 said. "Although I'm not even sure right now. I can't pound you into a pulp!"

He leaned down and grabbed both kids by their collars. "That's 'cause I'm bionic too." He picked them up with ease, letting them swing between his fingers. He searched around for a good tree and hooked the backs of their shirts over the branches. He wiped his hands and stepped back, observing his handiwork.

"You'll pay for this!" S-225 screamed, flailing his stick-like arms around in a desperate attempt to free himself.

"Sure I will. Do either of you kids know the way to the closest town?"

"Sure thing," S-224 said as if he wasn't dangling from a tree limb. "Just head that way towards the mountains and take a right at the ten-foot snowdrift. Go past the frozen lake and through the trees, and there's this cute little town right on the ocean. I suggest you head downtown and check out a little souvenir shop called—"

"Shut _up_ , S-224!" his companion hollered.

The oldest of the three straightened, thanked them curtly, and headed off on the route the boy had directed him towards, leaving Krane's juvenile lackeys to futilely scream for help.

* * *

 **Yes, you know those kids. I would think it's pretty obvious who they are.**


	22. Chapter 8-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 8.1 * * ***

* * *

He curled up in the corner of his cell, trying to find a position that wouldn't aggravate his wounds. He'd just come back from another visit to noplace, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately, sleep doesn't come easily when your body burns.

He had finally found a good spot when loud shouts echoed through the halls outside. At first he was inclined to ignore them, but as they continued and were joined by boots pounding on the metal floor, he sat up and moved toward the door.

Something slammed the door from outside and it opened inward. He looked up to see a man he'd never seen before, one with spiky hair and a large gun in his hands. No, wait, he _had_ seen this man before, but where?

"There you are!" the man said when he caught sight of the boy. "I didn't think we'd find you. Hey, he's in here!" he called to whoever was outside the door. "Come on, get up. We have to get out of here!"

"Who are you? What are you doing?" But nonetheless, he obeyed and ran out. Could this be his jailbreak?

"Do you know where the others are?" the man asked as they ran into a crowd of uniformed men and women standing their ground against the guards.

"What others?"

"Never mind. We need to get out of here. Don't look back—unless you want to die, of course."

They took off running, and he gladly followed. He didn't even care who these people were, whether they were good or bad. Nothing could be as bad as his years in this cursed facility.

They ran through the halls, taking out anyone who dared to challenge them. He didn't see the man who had caused him so much grief or the brother-sister pair, but he recognized some of the other guards who fell unconscious at his rescuers' hands.

They ran out the doors to a dozen searchlights and blaring sirens. The mysterious man grabbed the boy's hand and led him out, dodging any of the bullets sprayed at them and activating some sort of force-field device from his wrist to protect them.

It was then that the freed young man recognized his rescuer. "You're Douglas!"

The rescuer shrugged. "I know that."

"But . . . I remember you! You're my . . . my . . ."

"Dad? Yeah, I know that, too. C'mon, kid, let's get out of here!"

"Where are we going?"

"Back home. Where else? Donnie's got a helicopter up on that hill. We've got Army reinforcements to back us up, and as soon as we get in the copter, we're home free."

Free. Free. What a beautiful word: free. What did it mean?

They ran up the hill, the soldiers behind them shouting strange commands into strange devices, hovering over fallen friends, and lighting up enemies. Behind them all, something began to shoot at the helicopter hidden among the trees. Having no other choice, it ascended, but a ladder hung out for them to climb.

Douglas went up first. Douglas, his father! Someone he knew! Something he remembered!

He followed behind, clinging onto the rope for dear life.

"Hurry up, kid!" Douglas shouted over his shoulder. "We have to get out, _now_!"

"I'm trying!" he said through gritted teeth.

Searing pain exploded on his hand, and he looked to see blood seeping out above his wrist.

The fingers of his other hand dripped with sweat, unable to keep a strong grip.

The volley of bullets came for the copter, causing it to veer to the right.

He fell.

He heard his father call his name, saw him reach out of the open door, but it was too late. He fell to the ground—and fell past it.

He keep going and going, into the darkness, into fear.

He landed, but not hard. He looked around. Noplace. The place of dreams and visions, fantasy and fiction. The place of mind games, and a place exactly the opposite of reality.

The helmet came off, its metal prods releasing their death-like grip. He looked up into the face of the smiling man—most assuredly not Douglas. He looked around at the dark room he went into every day. He looked at his hands, secured to the chair with handcuffs.

It felt like being shot in the gut all over again.

* * *

 **I've killed a twelve-year-old's family, a twenty-one year old girl, two squads of 'visionary soldiers, and an entire base of Army soldiers. I've shot characters, bombed characters, dropped characters out of planes, and tortured characters. That's not even mentioning the stuff I haven't posted yet.**

 **But _this chapter_ is the _only_ one to make me feel remorseful. A chapter where I give both C and the reader a false hope of escape. _This one_. Like, I felt _really bad_ about making him/you think he got out.**

 **Huh. Go figure.**


	23. Chapter 8-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 8.2 * * ***

* * *

She glared at the middle-aged woman walking past her, trying to get her to divert her gaze. The lady looked shocked, concerned, and frightened, and she quickly turned her head away.

"B," Timothy said, tugging her sleeve, "how're these?" He held up a sweatshirt and baseball cap, both ratty and worn-out, but still the most beautiful clothing items she'd ever seen.

"Can you afford these?"

"It's a thrift shop. Plus I know the owner."

They hobbled over to the counter, grateful that it stayed open late and that the people of McPherson didn't appreciate that fact.

"Timothy?" the man behind the counter said. "What are you doing here? Who's she?" He pushed down his glasses and stared at her with suspicion.

"She's a family friend," Timothy said, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue. "She got a little messy, so we're trying to get her some new stuff."

"Is that . . .?" He gestured to her neck and the bloodstains, his eyes wide.

"Horseback riding gone wrong. Can we get these?"

"Sure, but . . . where are your parents?"

"Back . . . home." His voice faltered for the first time.

The owner nodded, unsure of how to respond. He rang up the clothes without any more questions. He even gave them the hat for free. Timothy thanked him and they exited the store.

The coat gave her warmth she didn't know existed. It also covered all the ugly and dubious stains on her shirt. It had no hood, but she popped up the collar to cover the bandage as best she could.

Pulling the baseball cap over her eyes brought her great relief, finally giving her a sense of peace. She tucked her ponytail underneath the hat, though a few white hairs dangled out alongside her face. She pushed them away and took a deep breath, shoving her hands in her pockets.

They walked in more silence down the dark streets—a young woman and a mere child. No, no danger at all. Really. She figured that one good, hard glare with her unnatural eyes would send any assailants running.

She glanced down at her traveling companion every few seconds, worried greatly about his mental state. She could hardly know what it was like to lose a family—she didn't remember hers. But that didn't stop her from feeling his pain.

"I want to go with you to California," he said as they neared the bus station.

"Do you?"

"I have family there. Right outside of San Fransisco. Is that near where you're going?"

"I don't know where I'm going, exactly."

"Well, you better figure that out soon."

"Timothy, you can't come with me."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm . . . I'm on the run from people. It wouldn't be safe with me."

"It'd be safer for me to be all alone?"

"Can't you find someone—"

"I have family outside of San Fransisco."

She sighed. "You're not going to take no for an answer?"

He shook his head.

She sighed again, and they walked into the bus station together.


	24. Chapter 8-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 8.3 * * ***

* * *

He walked into a building with the word "Tavern" painted in crisp red letters on its sign. He sat down at the bar, all the way on the end, away from the other roaring customers.

"Can I get you anything, kid?" the bartender said as he walked up.

He shook his head. "I haven't got any money. Is water free?"

The bartender's face soured, but then it softened—perhaps through sympathy. "Yeah. I'll get you a glass."

He nodded his thanks and went back to studying the oaken counter, wondering what his next move should be. He supposed he needed to get as far away as he could, but how? He couldn't risk hypothermia _again_ , but what other option did he have besides running out into the frozen tundra and hoping against hope that he wouldn't run into any more soldiers better qualified than two young teens?

He got his water and guzzled it without a second thought. He was entertaining the idea of asking for a refill when a girl about his age sidled up, a leering grin plastered on her face.

"Hey, I heard you say you didn't have any money," she said, words dripping from her mouth like sap from a tree. "How 'bout I buy you a drink?"

"No, thanks. I just want water."

"Aw, come on! One drink won't hurt you."

"No, I'm really good."

"No, no, I insist. A cutie like you should have as much as he wants. Bartender!"

"I said no."

"Nonsense. Maybe later you can come over to my place. You look cold. You got a place to go?"

He thought about lying to get her off his back, but decided on silence instead. He wanted to punch her right in her thick lips, but figured such an action would draw too much unwanted attention. Best to let it slide.

She pouted as he ignored her come ons, clearly not used to being turned down. She began to run her fingers down his neck, drawling in her silver-tongued voice. He tried to shrug her off, but she wouldn't be deterred.

"Maddison," a voice nearby hissed. He looked up to see another boy a few years younger than himself, his face twisted in a snarl.

"This doesn't concern you, Kayden," she said, her face twisting into a similar expression to the boy's.

"You leave that poor guy alone."

She snorted. "Who's going to make me? You?"

He clenched his fists. "Yes."

Her scowl deepened. "Fine."

She leapt on the boy with a scream. Her former object of affection leaned back in his seat, tipping his cup back to get the last few drops of water before asking for more. He watched as the two brawled on the floor, nearly unobserved by those around them. The other bar-goers hardly seemed concerned about them, as if it was a normal occurrence.

The younger boy finally got the upper hand against the older girl, standing over her in victory. "Now," he hissed, "get out or I'll call the police."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, yes I will. Get up, and get out."

Maddison stood, looking ready to kill someone. She stalked out of the tavern, hands balled into fists.

"You didn't have to do that," the most interested onlooker said, gulping down his second glass of water.

"Nah, I did," Kayden said as he sat down. "So sorry about that. My sister can be a nutcase."

"That was your sister?"

"Uh-huh. She's gotten in trouble here before, and I promised Ma I'd keep her away. I'm Kayden Kijek, by the way."

He nodded, choosing not to respond. He truly desired silence, but his new partner didn't agree.

"So, are you in the war?"

"What makes you think that?"

"You've got a lot of scars. And that bandage on your neck."

He turned and scanned the kid. He might've been seventeen, maybe more, maybe less. He had a juvenile air about him, like he wanted to go out and take on a world he knew nothing about.

"Yeah, I guess," the older boy said.

"Cool. What kinds of battles have you been in? You with the Army? They got some bases around here. I've tried to talk to the soldiers, but they don't like me. I think I'm going to join the fight next fall. What's it like? I think it would be fun to fight. Have you ever killed anyone? Hey, where are you going?"

He walked out of the tavern without another word, deciding that he did not like the Kijek family.


	25. Chapter 9-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 9.1 * * ***

* * *

 _Douglas . . . Douglas . . . Douglas Da . . . Dav . . . David . . . no . . ._

He couldn't get the mind game from the day before out of his mind. It kept him awake when he wanted to sleep, and when he resigned himself to wakefulness, the thoughts wouldn't leave.

That man from the game: Douglas. He knew the man. That man was his father.

Yes!

No?

He couldn't determine if it was all a set-up. Who was Douglas, and why had he been included in that fake story?

Oh, how he wished it were real. To be free! What a glorious fantasy.

But it was only a fantasy. A dream, a trick, a ruse. Something designed to flush out his true feelings and reveal them to his captors. They'd programmed an escape, and he'd fallen for their games.

Their games, always twisting and warping his mind until he didn't know reality from fiction.

He'd been taken to the room eight times, and each time they prodded his mind with some kind of tricky riddle or horrific situation. Until the eighth time, he knew they were fake. Now they had proven their prowess in messing with his sense of reality.

He fingered his chest—the hole in his chest. It sat below his collarbone, the smallest of his injuries. That bullet came closest to hitting its mark. Two more centimeters and it would've pierced his heart.

 _So close._

Freedom. He didn't know what it felt like. He had never experience it.

No, that wasn't true. He had, but not here. Not in this prison. There was a life before this nightmare, a day before the dream. If only he could remember.

What did he remember? What did he know?

He was bionic. Someone from his old life gave him his chip, and his current captors used it against him.

He was no longer a teenager. He figured he was when he came in, but it had surely been years. Unless his sense of time was entirely askew—which indeed it was—he had grown into a man.

He had a family. He didn't remember them at all, or even how many there were. He didn't remember his mother or his father, and he didn't know if he had siblings.

 _Siblings_. He liked that word. Maybe he did have some.

Douglas was his father? Yes? No? At the very least, was he a relative? Possibly. He couldn't remember. He knew Douglas's face. He knew his name. He knew his personality.

Douglas was someone from his old life, and perhaps a key to unlocking the memories.

They would regret reminding him.

He leaned back and groaned, cracking his shoulder blades. If he ever wanted to have a chance at freedom, he needed to become even stronger than before. He couldn't sit here and become truly pathetic. He couldn't wither away waiting for bullet wounds to close and stories to reach their ends.

He dropped to his hands and knees, pushing himself up and down. His muscles tensed, his nerves screamed. His voice did, too, and he hoped the guards would think it to only be another prisoner gone insane.

* * *

 **Inspiration: Uncle Iroh's time in prison during _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ season 3.**


	26. Chapter 9-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 9.2 * * ***

* * *

Luckily people didn't ask many questions in wartime. Yes, she got looks for being a twenty-something with a tween boy, but no one said anything aloud to them. Especially not when the twenty-something glanced up slightly and caused them to jump back in fright.

Timothy had stuffed extra cash into his pockets, or else they wouldn't have been able to buy the tickets at all. For once, she accepted his donations without debate. It was as much for him as for her.

They took seats in the back, her next to the window and him by the aisle—they agreed it would be best if she sat where others couldn't see.

She stuck her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her and looked out the window. The other passengers boarded and they pulled away from the station, out of the city and onto the country road.

"First stop, Denver," Timothy murmured.

She nodded, not responding. She turned to look at their surroundings and hissed at the fresh bout of pain.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine as I'm going to be," she whispered.

"It's a long trip. What do you want to do to pass the time?"

"Well, it's getting late, so I was thinking sleep."

"Right." His face held disappointment.

"What did you want to do?"

He shrugged. "Maybe nothing. Yeah, nothing. That's best."

She glanced over at him and noticed the faint tear streak on his cheek. How long had that been there? "I'm sorry," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He sniffed and blinked. "I'm sorry, B, I—"

"No, don't apologize."

He snorted, but another tear rolled down his face. "I d-don't think it's really hit me yet."

"It's okay if you need to cry." She moved in closer, trying to be a bastion of warmth and comfort for the child.

He shrugged. "I-I can't really seem to get it out. Mostly I feel angry."

"That's understandable."

"I hate the 'visionaries," he said, twisting the ends of his shirt. "Hate 'em, hate 'em, hate 'em."

"I hate them too."

"You're one of them."

"And yet you're riding with me. Do you hate me?"

"No."

"See? We're on the same side."

"I know. Why do you hate them?"

"Because they did the same thing to me that they did to you: they took my family away."

He looked up, his green eyes full of fearful wonder. "They did?"

She nodded. "And worse, they forced me to forget my family."

"You don't remember them at all? How do you even know you have one?"

"I've never been sure, but . . . I . . . I think I'm starting to . . ." She trailed off. She couldn't explain it to herself, much less the boy. Ever since her chip was destroyed, things had been coming slowly. First California, then a sincerity of her place in former relationships, and now. . . . "I had brothers. I don't remember their names or how many I had, but I had them. I remember."

"I had a brother."

She put her feet on the floor and folded her hands in her lap. Sleep—and all the awful dreams that came with it—could wait. "Tell me about him."

* * *

 **Inspiration: "Night Chase" by Casey Storm here on FFN.**

 **Oh, and if you were wondering, Timothy is from Kansas, the state he and B are now leaving.**


	27. Chapter 9-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 9.3 * * ***

* * *

"There you are!"

He looked up to see Kayden running after him, and he groaned. Couldn't a guy stand on the patio of a restaurant under the heaters for as long as he could before he got kicked out without any annoyances?

"What do you want, kid?"

"Kid? I can't be much younger than you."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"I've never been good with numbers, but I'm pretty sure that's a lot less than me."

"Well, how old are _you_?"

"Beats me."

Kayden wrinkled his nose. "I had to come find you. They say the 'visionaries are marching into town. Are you and your Army friends gonna stop them?"

"The Army base was destroyed." He said it without remorse.

Kayden's face paled. "W-Well, you're gonna do something about it, right?"

Funny how the kid figured he was in the Army. He only shrugged.

"You gotta!"

"Listen, kid, I intend to run as far away from those"—he swallowed and tried to think of a non-colorful insult—"evil dudes as I can."

"Run? You're running?"

"You'd best run too."

"Nuh-uh! You're some kind of coward!"

He shrugged. "It's braver to run. If they got a hold of me, they'd be unstoppable. Mark my words."

Kayden's frown deepened. "You're just like my dad. Never around when you're needed."

He sighed. Why did he have to get all caught up in this family's business? Nevertheless, he wouldn't walk away while his face warmed from the nippy weather. "What'd your dad do?"

"He fishes. He's gone most of the time. Always taking his boat down to Washington and them other states down there to sell stuff. Matter o' fact, he's leaving again today. Hasn't even been home a week, and most of the time he's out with the boat."

"His boat?"

"Yeah. It's more than a dinghy, mark my words. I stowed away on it one time. Ma really tanned my hide for that one, but it was worth it."

"And you said he's leaving today?"

"Uh-huh. His boat's in the harbor and it's all loaded up now. They'll be sailing down to Seattle to sell the salmon. Says that war's a good time to sell, 'cause people are desperate to buy."

An Asian woman in an apron and black shirt stepped onto the patio with a smile frozen to her face. "Excuse me, sirs, but if you aren't going to come inside and buy something, I'm afraid you'll have to move."

They stepped back into the frosty air. He hated it, but he didn't intend to stay in it for long. He'd never been one for plans, but thanks to the Kijek family, he might finally have one.

"Sorry 'bout your dad, kid," he grumbled. "I've gotta go."

"Where are you going? Can I come with you? Are you sure you can't stop those 'visionaries? I'd love to stop them, those—" He proceeded to use a word colorful enough to make a soldier blush.

"Scram, kid," he growled, unwilling to put up with these antics any longer.

"But I think that—"

"I said scram!"

Kayden turned and walked away like a kicked puppy, looking back every few feet.

The soldier kept walking, like he'd always been told to do. He repeated the mantras in his head as per usual, but came to halt when a new thought interrupted them:

 _Funny story: the word scram—_

An unfinished sentence from a long-forgotten friend. Who? The sentence repeated itself in a voice he no longer remembered: a high-pitched, know-it-all, tense voice. Who?

 _Keep moving. Forget that. Not important. Don't look back. Look forward. Keep walking. Don't stop moving. Don't turn back. Don't think about it. It's nothing. Don't stop._

He headed for the docks.

* * *

 **For anyone who's curious, Adam's on the Alaskan coast. Not for long, however.**

 **We are now halfway through this story. There's much more to come, trust me. A handful of answers, and a boatload of questions. Literally. Stay tuned.**


	28. Chapter 10-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 10.1 * * ***

* * *

The guard shoved him into the room and slammed the door before he could react. He spun around and pounded on the steel. "Hey, this isn't my cell!"

"No, but it's where you're supposed to be today."

He gasped and turned on his heel, exhaling as he caught a glimpse of the speaker. "Kitty, it's you. You scared me."

"Then you need to be more observant, because I'm the only one in here," Kitty said, folding her arms across her chest.

"I was looking at the door," he mumbled. "How are you, Kitty?"

"Same as always. How about you, C?"

"My life's a mess."

"Ah. So nothing's changed?"

"Exactly."

They stared at each other for a moment. He didn't know if Kitty was her real name, the same way she didn't know if C was his. Neither of them questioned it.

Kitty was a 'visionary, and the only one he didn't despise. She seemed to be around his age, and while he didn't know much about her, he knew that she had joined the rebel group years ago in her youth and now harbored some regrets.

"So . . . we sparring?" he asked.

"Yeah. They thought it would be a good idea. They didn't tell you?"

He laughed. "What do you think?"

"Well, they told me. We'll do this for as long as you can go, all right? Inventor versus the invention."

"Yeah, but I'm not _your_ invention." They moved to the center of the room, and Kitty walked over to a bench with a duffel bag on it.

"Nah, but . . . you know what I mean. I want to try one of _my_ new inventions on you." She pulled out a glove and slid it over her right hand, flexing her fingers.

"That's not new."

"No, but it's upgraded, and I want to make sure it still works against bionics."

"All right. Let's do this."

"Are you sure?" Kitty lowered her hand and met his gaze. Her eyes held sympathy—something he hadn't seen since the sister from the brother-sister pair. "You've got seven bullet wounds in your body, don't you?"

"Not like I have a choice, eh? Just do it. And don't take it easy; they'll know."

She nodded. Like him, she understood the implications of disobedience.

The blonde dynamo rushed him, and he activated his laser bo to stop her. She blocked his strikes with her glove—a unique article with a purposeful mix of woven fibers that could withstand nearly any amount of force. He knew that, and he challenged it.

"Your glove works fine," he said as she successfully kept him on the offensive, "but your own skills could use work." His right arm smarted, but he kept quiet.

"I know," she said. "Why do you think I'm fighting you?"

His right shoulder smarted, but he kept quiet. "You need to be quicker to block my strikes. Be ready for anything and above all—"

He hit her in the chest and she flew back into the wall. She rubbed her head and groaned.

"Keep your guard up." He smirked. His stomach smarted, but he kept quiet.

"You're doing fine for an injured boy."

"I try." Sure, his calf smarted, but he kept quiet.

He reached down and pulled her to her feet, wincing a little at the pressure on his wounded shoulder.

"Hey, Kitty?" he said as she adjusted her glove.

"Hmm?"

"Did you ever work on any kind of helmet?" If anyone would know about that cruel device, it would be the resident inventor.

"No, not that I recall."

"They're using it on me every day, showing me stories and messing with my brain."

"Never created anything like that, sorry."

"Worth a shot." He felt his entire body go warm, but he kept quiet.

"C, are you okay?"

"Why?" He didn't want to answer that honestly. This felt worse than usual—something was off—but speaking of it would only get him into trouble.

"You look sick."

"I've been sick since I got here."

"No, really, you look awful."

Looked? He felt. His head buzzed and he could feel the sweat accumulating on his skin. His hands shook, his heart raced, and he couldn't breathe. He looked up at Kitty, hoping his eyes communicated his plea for help.

Then he fell to the ground, Kitty shouting above him.

* * *

 **Inspiration: Cortosis-weave gloves from the Star Wars EU.**

 **Source: American Heart Association.**

 **Kitty is not the same girl from before. She is a new OC of mine, and she has an awful name, I know. Kitty was a temporary name, but for the life of me I could not come up with another one. So Kitty she remained. Enjoy her.**


	29. Chapter 10-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 10.2 * * ***

* * *

She combed her wet fingers through her hair but paused. Perhaps removing the dirt would only draw more attention to her snowy locks. No, she desired to feel clean— _deeply_ desired. She needed cleanliness like she needed oxygen, so she doused her hands and massaged her scalp.

The bathroom door opened and she glanced down. The person entered a stall and she looked up, placing the cap firmly on her head. She tilted the brim down, shoved her hands in her pockets, and stalked out of the fetid bus station restroom.

Timothy stood outside the mens' room, straightening when she walked out.

"We don't want to miss the next bus," he said.

"We'll be fine."

They walked across the station together, finding the platform where transportation would arrive in twenty minutes. The frigid morning air kissed their cheeks, and both leaned against the rails, not wishing to sit.

"Are you doing okay, B?" Timothy asked out of the blue.

She shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be? Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

So many reasons. So, so many reasons why they wouldn't be all right.

"Only three more state lines and we'll be in Sacramento."

She nodded, studying the signs above her—many of which held the appellation "Denver Bus Station."

"We've only got to switch one more time," her traveling companion said. "Salt Lake City, and after that, we're home free."

"Sounds good."

They waited the rest of the time in silence, as was their wont. The bus pulled up and they climbed on with only a handful of other passengers. Once again they took the backseats, staying out of sight.

Timothy pulled out the strips of cloth and began wrapping them together to make different shapes. He had begun the game in the early hours of the morning, after his failure to sleep.

He had just finished twisting the cloth into the shape of a star when he murmured, "I always wanted to go to California."

She had tired of the silence—for once in her life—and so she jumped at a chance for conversation. "Why's that?"

He shrugged and undid his work. "I've never left Kansas before, and I guess I always wanted to see what was out there. I've always wanted to go to Berkley, but Momma never took me seriously." His face didn't sadden as he shaped a heart.

"You've got a lot of dreams?"

"Yeah. What about you?"

"I never had time for dreams."

"That's sad. Do you remember being a kid?"

She started. What an odd question. "No, I don't remember."

"Nothing at all?"

"It's the 'visionaries fault."

He nodded and paused his art. He gazed directly into her eyes, and she didn't flinch. "You've got pretty eyes."

Her lips parted—a grin? "Really? I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"They're not normal."

"You saw yourself for the first time last night, didn't you?"

"Yes, but . . . I knew my eyes were green. They . . . _they_ told me."

"Oh, that makes sense. But anyways, they're a pretty green. Mine don't look like that."

She chuckled. "Yours don't glow."

He wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, but . . . I've seen Krane's soldiers, and their eyes glow. But not like yours. Theirs look mean and mechanical, but yours are . . ."

"Organic?"

"I guess that's the word."

"They experimented on me with radiation. Krane's soldiers have the Triton App, I have a permanent alteration of my DNA."

"It's a pretty alteration, if you ask me."

"Thank you."

She'd just received a compliment. She'd taken shock, horror, and disgust, but never a compliment. She hardly knew what to do with herself.

Timothy twisted several pieces of cloth together to form a horse.


	30. Chapter 10-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 10.3 * * ***

* * *

His plan worked well, and he felt quite accomplished. Yes, it took work, and small details tripped him up every so often, but otherwise, it went over fine.

He thought about his fine idea as he stood on the deck of the boat, staring out into the inky night. The captain—father of Kayden and Maddison Kijek, and someone he would prefer never to meet—and his crew slept at these hours, trusting the technology of the boat to guide them. If anyone awoke, they would go to the control room, not his hiding spot in the back of the boat.

It smelled awful. Fish lay everywhere, and he didn't understand how people did this for a living.

Sometimes he would stand and look out over the rail. The water lapped against the sides with more violence than he thought they would, and staring at them too long made him queasy. When he didn't stand, he sat in the back with the lifeboat and other equipment unlikely to be used during the trip. He also shivered. Canadian winds held no sympathy for him.

Yes, it had turned out to be a good plan. Kayden and his father would never know—or at least he expected so. His plans had gone wrong before.

Something about the entire trip gave him the oddest sense of déjà vu. On a ship in the middle of the ocean, running away from people who wanted to hurt him—but something was missing. He needed . . . friends? No. But what? But who?

He put those thoughts out of his head.

 _Don't look back. Look forward. Ignore those feelings. Keep going. Don't stop. Don't turn around. Forget the past. Forget him, forget her, forget them and everyone else. Leave it behind. March forward, soldier_

He began to wonder how many of those watchwords had been inculcated in him by superiors and how many had sprung from his own mind.

 _Not many_ , an old friend might say. _Your brain's got nothing new._

Friend? No. Not quite. But who?

 _Get those thoughts out! Push on, push forward. You made a plan, but now what? Where are you going next?_

A good question, and one he didn't know how to answer. Where to now? After the boat, after Seattle, where could he go? He had no home, no direction.

 _Not California,_ he thought to himself. _That's 'visionary infested land. They'd catch me for sure if I went there._

He plotted out the map in his head and tried to remember safe zones—which the 'visionaries had tried to brainwash him into thinking were unsafe.

California, New Mexico, and much of the South had fallen under Revisionary control. Oregon and Washington, much like the Northeast, were still under control of the US. Krane's army had no territory to speak of, but instead controlled smaller pockets throughout the country, striking in minute but powerful groups.

Perhaps staying in Washington would be his best bet. Though the land was under threat of 'visionary attack at the current time, he could find a way to assimilate into the culture before that happened.

Live a normal life. Would that be his future? Go in, blend in—never be a soldier again? Or, possibly, he could join the US Army. After enough time had passed, of course, that he wouldn't be under any suspicion.

No, deep in his heart, he knew none of that would happen. They would find him. The 'visionaries had never let him go before, and he didn't believe they would give up now. He would run as long as he could, but he knew one day he wouldn't be able to run any further.

He let out a dark laugh. "See what you did? You made me think. I'm plotting out maps in my brain and thinking about the future. Ugh. I hate it all." His head hurt, and after wiping his brain clear once more, he fell asleep to the rocking of the boat.

* * *

 **I'm aware this chapter is slow, but it is by no means useless. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.**


	31. Chapter 11-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 11.1 * * ***

* * *

"Guess that's one way to earn a break."

He cracked his eyes open to see Dr. Snyder above him. His white beard jumped around his face as he placed items back into a cabinet.

"You're awake, so my work here is done," he said, turning to the boy.

"What happened?"

"You tell us."

He leaned back on the cot and stared at the tiled ceiling. "Syncope can happen for many reasons," he muttered. "Malnutrition, pain, exhaustion, emotional stress—"

"Airing our grievances, are we?"

"Pretty much."

Dr. Snyder chuckled. This same doctor had treated his bullet wounds when he arrived—he wasn't a bad man, not really, but like so many others he had been caught in a web of wrongdoing that he could no longer control.

"Was it only syncope?" he managed to utter. Fear tickled the edges of his mind, but he couldn't recall a time when infections had led to fainting.

"As far as we can tell. You lost consciousness for several minutes, but not for any reason we can see—aside from the ones you stated. I changed your bandages while you were out; looked like you could use it. Keep your chin up, kid. Brighter days are coming." Dr. Snyder had an optimistic view of the world, something the boy never understood.

"Thank you."

"Well, I'm off. You're not the only soldier in need of treatment. Gotta keep our boys healthy. They'll be back for you in about twenty minutes, and until then, I suggest you get your rest." Dr. Snyder picked up his things and walked to the door, but paused before leaving. "I mean it, kid. This war will come to an end one day."

"And who do you think will win?"

Dr. Snyder's face drained of color. "Goodbye, C." The door slammed shut and he was alone.

The room looked like any hospital room; one couldn't even tell the darkness that lay just beyond its doors. He lay on the cot, and standard medical equipment filled the shelves around him. The white walls radiated a cheery glow no other part of the facility had.

Nonetheless, this room had to be his least favorite. He had spent hours—days?—lying on the cot, screaming and gasping and pleading and crying. They only anesthetized him when they saw fit, which happened rarely, and in the lightest doses they could afford. Thus he spent much time aware of the pain as they removed the seven metal cylinders.

He shuddered and stood, striding over to the sink. No reason to dwell on the past—as much as it had hurt. He ran the water over his hands and splashed his face, running wet fingers through his hair and over his stubbly chin. It felt good to clean himself, though he had no mirror to tell how dirty he still was. He didn't want to know.

"You okay?"

He spun on his heel, straight into an attack position, and relaxed when he saw the new arrival. "Kitty, you have to stop scaring me like that."

Kitty leaned against the door, blinking her blue eyes with her mouth half-open. "You gotta pay more attention, _super soldier_. This door isn't a quiet one."

He let his arms drop to his side. "I guess I was lost in my thoughts."

"Plans for world domination?" she joked, not moving from her post by the door.

"Something like that. I'm already on the winning team."

She wrinkled her nose and said, "So, you are okay, right?"

"Yeah, just a little fainting spell."

"Nothing serious?"

"As serious as malnutrition and heavy emotional stress can be."

"Again, get used to it, _super soldier_. I thought you were supposed to be strong." Her eyes betrayed her compassion.

"Well." He pulled out a paper towel and dried his hands, unsure of how to address her statement. "Well."

Kitty uncrossed her arms and took a step closer. "I'm just glad you're all right. I had to check on you before I left."

"They shipping you out?"

She nodded, her bangs bouncing in front of her eyes. "They need some help up north. Their reactors are having problems: three scrams this week. They need all their brightest minds on it."

He chuckled. _Scram_. He liked that word. "Why haven't I heard about it? I'm probably the brightest mind they've got."

She rocked back and forth on her heels. "From what I hear, they're using that big brain of yours for other things."

"I guess they are."

"Well, I need to go. Glad you're all right, but for heaven's sake, C, don't ever scare me like that again!" She put a hand on the door and began to open it, but not before turning back and whispering, "Feel better. You're my only friend, and I . . . get better, C."

She left, and he went to wash his face again.

* * *

 **Source: American Heart Association.**


	32. Chapter 11-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 11.2 * * ***

* * *

Timothy opened his eyes and rolled over. "Where are we?" he mumbled under a yawn, for once sounding like the child he was.

"We just crossed the state line," she whispered, unsure of whether to be excited or apprehensive. "We're in California."

Her companion sat up and stared out the window. "It's dark."

"It's after ten already."

Timothy nodded and slumped back into the seat. They'd spent most of the afternoon napping, seeing as how there wasn't much else to do. Their only stop had been at Salt Lake City at 2:45, and everything after and before that had bored her out of her mind.

"We'll arrive in Sacramento in a few hours," she said.

"That's good."

The bus jolted, and all five passengers looked out the windows. Some large cars had come up beside the bus, forcing it off the road. The driver called back some kind of warning before they went over the embankment.

Timothy grabbed her shirt, staring up at her with wide eyes. She put a hand on his and said, "Pray it's not 'visionaries."

"Or Krane."

They hadn't crashed, only come to a forceful stop in the shrubbery beside the highway. The driver looked tense, and he gripped the pole behind him with white knuckles. The other passengers stood, wondering what would happen.

Several men armed with crowbars and one with a gun forced their way through the doors. The one with the gun chewed on a cigarette butt and flashed a toothy, maniacal grin. "Ya don't need to worry," he drawled, "we just fixin' to rob ya." He and his friends chuckled.

"Not 'visionaries or Krane," she muttered under her breath. "Just a bunch of idiots."

"Everythin' into the sack!" the pirate shouted. "No callin' the po-leeze or ya be findin' out why I carry ol' Charlie here." He waved his gun to make a point. "Git it in!"

The other three riders—a businessman, an elderly woman, and a college-aged girl—obeyed, tossing in their phones and wallets. Their faces betrayed their panic and grief, but even the most materialistic man would part with his goods before his life.

The men got to the back, where she and Timothy stood. The younger boy slid back in the seat, his courage washing away. She swallowed and clenched her fists. She'd dealt with worse than these.

"Ya got a knapsack there, girly," the armed man said, and she could smell the tobacco on his breath. "Ah think ah can . . . take it off yer hands." He flashed his toothy smile, his friends laughing.

Tightening her jaw to keep herself from gagging, she replied, "Actually, we need that stuff."

"Aw, ya need it? Why didn' ya say so?" He clutched her arm and his teeth disappeared. "Gimme the bag."

She used his own weight against him and tossed him over the seat. He groaned at the impact, but recovered and said, "Git 'er!"

She cracked her neck and prepared herself as the next few attacked. She led them away from Timothy and the others. No one else needed to get hurt.

They found themselves hopelessly outmatched, something they hadn't expected. Most 'visionaries and even quite a few of Krane's soldiers couldn't compare to her, with or without her chip, and she knew it.

After she had three down, Charlie's owner approached, aiming at her chest.

"Try it," she hissed. "I've taken worse."

He fired.

She dropped to the ground with lightning speed—something she retained without her chip. He fired again, but she only rolled under the seats.

Then a small figure jumped on him, and he began to flail his arms around. She looked up to see Timothy—skilled horseman he was—riding her attacker.

She jumped up and yelled at her friend, but not before an elbow made contact with his chin. He fell backward onto the seat with a gut-lurching _thud_.

Charlie's owner spun around and targeted the young boy, and she tackled him just as the gun went off—too late. She wrested the gun out of his hands, to his consternation. She used that moment to tip up her hat and stare as hard as she could. They sat for several seconds, eyes locked, and his face morphed from confidence to terror.

"Git out!" he shouted to his friends. "Ah don' know what wrong with 'er, but _git out_!"

The other pirates charged out of the bus, knocking over anyone in their way. Charlie's owner—no longer in possession of Charlie—scrambled to his feet and took off.

She raised the gun and pointed it at their retreating backs, but she couldn't convince herself to pull the trigger. By the time she did, they were long gone.

She sighed, dropping her hands to her side. The other passengers on the bus stared at her with a mix of horror and relief, but she couldn't care less about their reactions. She had an unconscious twelve-year-old with a bullet in his leg to deal with.

* * *

 **Y'all knew it was too good to last, didn't you?**

 **. . .**

 **I know, I know, I'm a terrible person. Oh well. At least he's not dead. (Yet, anyway.)**


	33. Chapter 11-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 11.3 * * ***

* * *

He woke up again with a muzzle on his chest. "Five more minutes," he mumbled. "Seriously, can't a guy get any sleep around here?"

"What faction ya with?" It came out as a growl. Not a friendly voice.

Well, he had lasted a few days, at least. "Can't I just be a lonely drifter looking for a place to call home?"

"Ya could be. But do ya know how many 'drifters' I've had aboard this ship? I'm not taking my chances."

He opened his eyes to see the grizzled sailor and his two buff friends. The sailor—Captain Kijek, no doubt—had an old rifle, though his fumbling fingers revealed his ineptness.

"I'm not with any faction," the younger man drawled, sitting up under the gun.

"Yea, I think ya are."

"I was with the 'visionaries." No reason to lie. "I like the Army a lot, but they want to kill me."

"You're a 'visionary man?"

"Not willingly. I'm running away from them."

They stared at each other in complete deadlock. The soldier boy didn't have a weapon to defend himself, but he also knew the old man wouldn't pull the trigger.

He was proved right—quite a feat.

"'S long as you're here, ya might as well help us. Ya look like a good, strong boy. Ya help us catch fish and keep 'em in the boat, we'll drop you off in Seattle—no questions asked."

"Deal."

"Ya got a weapon?"

"No sir. Only my fists."

"Eh. Well, see ya don't use them on us. We've had more experience in this war than ya think." His rifle finally drifted all the way to his side. "Ya got a name?"

"It's A."

"That's all ya gonna give me?"

"That's all I know."

"Eh. Well, A, get to work. We're packing those fish into these here crates. There might even be a dollar or two in it for ya."

"Lucky me," he muttered, and at that moment his stomach let out a rumble. "You got anything to eat instead?"

"Raw fish." Captain Kijek pointed at the deck. "Ya want some real food, ya do the work. _Then_ we eat."

He did the work, and he did it well. The sailors employed him to a few other tasks, marveling at his ability and alacrity to do the jobs offered to him. They were more than happy to share their lunch when the time came. He had found that he liked Captain Kijek more than his children—which became a subject of conversation sooner than he expected.

"How'd ya find my ship?"

He swallowed the marvelous bite of sandwich—never had something so simple tasted so good. "Your son told me about it."

"Ya know my son?"

"And your daughter. I met them in a bar."

Captain Kijek shook his head. "I'm sorry 'bout that. It's their ma that raised 'em, ya know." He proceeded to spit out—quite literally; his companions saw the saliva fly across the deck—a colorful noun. Their guest lowered his head and devoured the rest of his sandwich.

"Got any more?" he said, even as things began to fall apart.

"Captain, something's wrong with the water," another sailor said as he ran out of the control room.

"Eh? Got a school coming through?"

"No sir, not _in_ the water, _with_ the water."

The sky darkened and the winds picked up, sloshing water over the boat.

"There wasn't gonna be any storm today," the captain muttered.

"Sir, there's a boat coming toward us," another sailor reported.

"But no one else is—" His face paled. "Krane. Eh, boys! Get to the stations! Prepare for a storm!"

"Sir?" one questioned.

"It ain't a natural one, but we gotta treat it so if we don't wanna be killed."

"Krane?" the stowaway said as he got to his feet.

"His soldiers'll capsize boats off the coast and steal the goods. They manipulate the elements or somethin' of the sort."

"Yeah, Krane," he muttered to himself. He strode to the edge of the boat and looked over the water. He could see the other ship coming towards them. On the bow stood what looked to be a young girl, her hands in the air. She moved them forward, and a wave crashed into the ship.

"She's taking on too much water, cap'ain!" a soldier shouted.

"We have to try!"

The sailors ran around the deck, shouting orders and working together better than most battalions. Their efforts were all in vain.

Another wave came up and knocked the boat over, sending the sailors and their guest into the ocean. Every man grabbed onto something, clinging for dear life to the wood knocked loose and floating in the water. Most rose above the surface after the initial impact. Most.

The soldier fell under the water and remained calm. He would be fine. After all, he—

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

He could breathe a second ago, and now he couldn't breathe.

Why couldn't he breathe?

He struggled to break the surface, struggled to reach air, struggled to sooth his burning throat.

He came up and gasped for air at the exact moment the mast from the ship came down and knocked all sense out of his head.


	34. Chapter 12-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 12.1 * * ***

* * *

The helmet came off, and he didn't move, didn't speak. He waited—for what, he didn't know.

"How do you feel, C?"

He looked into the eyes of his oppressor—at the man he hated so much. "I think the same thing I always do."

"You're confused?"

"Very."

"Do you have any theories?"

He slid his bottom teeth across the top, trying to decide on the wisest answer to such a charged question.

"Feel free to speak. I think you've suffered enough for one week."

He lifted an eyebrow. "You never think I've suffered enough."

The man's face darkened. "I'm giving you a rare opportunity: to speak without repercussion. You're a fool if you don't take it."

"I do have some theories."

"I knew you would."

"Will you confirm or deny them?"

"What do you think?"

He lowered his head. It was worth a shot anyway. "I think they're real," he whispered.

"You think the stories we show you are true."

"I do. They're both 'visionaries."

"How astute of you to notice." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"They're both 'visionaries, and they both defected in one way or another. I think they're going to meet horrible ends. You're showing me these stories to dissuade me from turning against you."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's only a theory, therefore, unconfirmed. But it's the best I've got. It makes sense to me."

"It does."

"Yes. Except—"

"Except for what, C?"

"My only problem is that I . . . I feel like I know them. And I think I would've remembered leading them in a squad. I don't remember working with them in the army, but I feel like . . . like I know them somehow. That we're connected." He looked up with a sneer. "Or is that another one of your tricks?"

The man spread out his hands, a cruel grin dancing on his lips. "Only time will tell, I suppose."

"Will I know the whole truth one day?"

"We'll explain it all eventually."

"Will you really?"

"You don't trust us?" The man put a hand over his heart and pouted.

"Not a whit."

"You're even smarter than we thought."

"Aren't I?"

The man walked around the room and behind the boy. "So, that's your theory about these stories. And you believe them to be real?"

"I do."

"Hmm."

"Hmm? That's all you're going to say?"

"That's it."

"Even if they're not real, you could still be using them to make the same point: to drive that fear into me of what could happen if I desert."

"Very true. It sounds like us, doesn't it?"

"Quite. I just can't get past the . . . the familiarity."

"It is a mystery."

"Maybe I just don't remember working with them."

"Highly possible."

"You're messing with my head. I don't know what to think anymore."

"Hasn't that always been the purpose of this room?"

The boy looked up to see the hand coming toward him—of course it wouldn't stay off his face for long.

* * *

 **Theories, hmm?**

 **What are yours?**


	35. Chapter 12-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 12.2 * * ***

* * *

"What are you?"

She looked up from her wounded friend, a wry smile plastered on her face. "I like how you said _what_ and not _who_."

"That would be nice to know too." The businessman approached her with fear in his bearing, obviously unsure of how to address the girl who had taken on a whole group of robbers single-handedly.

"Neither of those are important right now." She finished wrapping the linen strips around Timothy's thigh and winced when she saw blood already seeping through. "He needs help."

"We can't leave now," the bus driver said, getting closer to his passengers. "The goons outside ripped the engine to shreds while their friends robbed us, and the 'visionaries are crawling all over this place. If they catch us wandering around at night, we're doomed."

"This is one lousy bus trip," the college-aged girl said from her seat, the place she'd been since the robbery.

"I warned y'all it could happen," the driver snapped.

"So you want to wait until morning before going anywhere?" the former soldier said, not moving her eyes from her wounded friend.

"I don't see how we have any other choice. It's almost midnight, and this isn't a well-populated area. Staying here until the sun comes up is our safest bet."

"Timothy needs help _now_."

The businessman got closer. "Is he your brother or something?"

"Close enough. I'm all he has left—most of his family's dead, and I don't know where the rest of them are."

"The nearest hospital is in Truckee," the driver said. "Seventeen miles away."

The girl frowned, slid one arm under Timothy's knees and the other under his neck, and stood. "That's nothing."

"Sweetie, are you not listening?" the older woman said. "It's not safe!"

"I've dealt with worse."

"Clearly," the other young girl muttered. "You're a soldier, aren't you? Your eyes are green . . . are you with Krane?"

"No, I'm not with Krane."

"Then who?"

"Currently I'm not with anyone."

"But you have been."

"No comment."

The other girl scowled. " _You_ don't seem safe."

"Then you shouldn't mind me leaving this bus."

"I don't."

The driver took a step closer. "Is there any way we can talk you out of this, uh . . .?"

She glowered. "I'm not giving a name."

He frowned. "Look, kid, I've got a first aid kit in the back. If you give me a second—"

"He has a bullet in his leg." She didn't shout, but her voice echoed back with authority. "I've seen enough of those to know that no damned first aid kit is going to help." She didn't like to swear—she recoiled every time one of her soldier buddies did so. But she felt so _passionate_.

She hadn't felt passion for a long time.

No one else on the bus said anything. She walked out past them, the child's head lolling over her arm. She could feel the drenched linen against her hand—the bullet, fired at such high velocity, had gone through the flesh like water. She stomached the nausea and stepped out, leaving the other passengers behind. Let them stay. Let them be cowards.

She walked through the door into the strangely warm night air. The mountains loomed above her on the dimly lit road. Cars roared by to her left as she trampled over the underbrush.

It was at this moment that she missed her speed the most.

Out of habit, she tried to slip into it, only to utterly fail. For the best, she reminded herself. Her speed might be gone, but so was their ability to find her. She had _freedom_ , and she valued that more than anything.

To the cars rolling down the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway at 11:00 at night, she must've looked a peculiar sight. A twenty-or-so girl with a twelve-or-so boy in her arms, marching along the side of the road with fierce determination. They looked pitiful, and she knew it. All the cars rolling by knew it as well.

No one stopped. It's a time of war, they said in their heads. Hitchhikers can only mean danger.

* * *

 **Funny that in the entire story, B is the only one whose swear doesn't get censored in one way or another. Obviously I don't swear, nor do I encourage others to do so, but language is my forte, and I must make use of all of it.**


	36. Chapter 12-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 12.3 * * ***

* * *

He woke up on the shore and choked. Sea water gushed out of his mouth, the salt leaving a bitter burning in his throat. He coughed for several minutes, not even bothering to look at his surroundings.

Finally his body stopped its convulsions. He wiped the tear stains off his cheeks and let out a shuddering sigh. He took a deep breath and lifted his head to observe his surroundings.

A plain old beach. _Shocker_.

 _Get up. Keep going. Move forward. Why are you stopping? Pathetic little boy. Don't stop. Don't ever stop. Move forward, unless you want to be dead. Or worse. Move!_

He pressed a hand to his temple and sniffed, looking around. Driftwood dotted the sand, not a body to be see—dead or alive. Fish corpses, however, did lay around, spilling out of broken crates. The stench wafted into his nose, but he couldn't care less. He had bigger problems.

The clouds loomed overhead and threatened rain. Their eerie presence and the shifting winds only added to a sense of doom.

 _Get up. Move out._

For once, he listened. He stood, his legs shaking and his body aching. He ignored it and pressed forward like a good soldier should.

Something wet ran down the side of his neck, and he would've attributed the feeling to seawater dripping from his hair, but this liquid felt warm. He put a hand up and pulled it back to see blood staining his fingers.

His bullet wound.

The bandage had washed away in the ocean, never to be seen again. In frustration, he tore a sleeve off his coat, subjecting his right arm to the bitter cold. It was his second-favorite, anyway. He wrapped the cloth around his neck as tight as he could without cutting off oxygen. He looked back at the laughing sea and glowered.

How had he survived? He'd lost his ability to breathe underwater before he blacked out—had it only been temporary? Why didn't he bleed to death—or get eaten by a shark? How had he come ashore when he couldn't see signs of skilled seamen having the same luck? Had it only been luck? Was fate being kind to him for once in his life?

Then he considered his situation, and he wished he had drowned.

Out of curiosity, he picked up a rock and squeezed. It turned to powder in his fingers. So he had strength again. That moment in the ocean must've been a glitch . . . a temporary glitch . . . why only temporary?

He walked along the shore. The ground under his feet wasn't like the smooth sand he'd seen at other beaches, but instead rocks thrown together to create an illusion of sand. The beach he stood on seemed hardly frequented; no roads or signs of civilization were in sight.

Larger rocks rose to his right along the water's edge, and every so often a wave would come and slap them, spraying mist into his face. He ignored it and marched forward, trying to ignore everything else: the throbbing in his neck, the rumbling of his stomach, the aching of his throat, the burning in his chest. None of it mattered. If he could survive the night, he could worry about those minor details in the morning.

He walked for what seemed like hours, but with the sun—or perhaps moon—hidden behind the clouds, he had no way to tell. It didn't matter. He marched forward with his arms wrapped around his chest and his mind blank.

As he trudged through the woods, he came upon a derelict building. At first he was tempted to pass it by, but as the small drops of rain fell from the sky, he decided shelter might be a good move.

The building proved larger than it first appeared, looming above him at three stories high and covering several square yards. He didn't care—so long as it provided him a roof over his head.

The inside was damp and dark. It didn't matter to him; the woods outside were the same way. Graffiti covered a handful of walls. In some places it mysteriously dropped off, as if the hooligans had been interrupted by something.

He ascended the stairs to the second floor. Judging by the layout of rooms and leftover furniture, the building had once been a hospital. He supposed it looked like something out of a horror movie, but he was too exhausted to care. So long as it protected him from the rain and the cold.

He walked along a hallway with a balcony on one side, overlooking the first floor. He stared at it for a moment before turning into a nearby room. Inside sat a cot with a semi-intact mattress. He plopped himself down on the bed, ignoring the dust and whatever began to crawl down his leg—he had bigger problems.

No food. No water. No sense of direction. No idea where he was. No medical care. No companionship. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

His face scrunched up, much like his insides. He genuinely felt like something inside would physically explode. He couldn't comprehend, nor could he process. He didn't know how to feel, how to think. He didn't know what to do. He felt weaker and weaker by the minute, and he _hated_ feeling weak.

Everything hurt, inside and out.

His face twisted more and more. His heart twisted more and more. His grip around his own body grew tighter and tighter.

Finally, he threw back his head and screamed, releasing every feeling he didn't have a name for.


	37. Chapter 13-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 13.1 * * ***

* * *

He kept his gazed directed to the ground and didn't speak. The sister from the brother-sister pair—the only guard he didn't despise—led him through the hallways, her grip on his arm loose.

She seemed good, and he would've interacted with her, but he was lost in his thoughts about the mind game he'd played a few minutes prior, where he'd been forced to choose which group of people to save, leaving the others to burn. He could still hear their screams—too realistic for his taste. And then there were the stories, with the girl trying to save her only friend and the boy all alone and torn up inside. It gave him plenty to think about.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice when the guard led him down a different hall. Only when she opened a door and waited for him to go in did he notice the unfamiliar location.

"What's this?"

"They wanted you to get cleaned up. I'd be grateful if I were you."

He walked into the small bathroom. Grime covered the tiles and the shower appeared to be horrendously worn-down, but what did it matter? A place to become clean. Who cared how unclean it was in itself?

"I'll be standing outside the door," his friend said. Yes, she was a friend. She had been nice to him, and that was rare. "Take as long as you need; I've got instructions to take you back to your cell when you're done."

"Thank you."

She nodded and closed the door.

"So," he said, hoping she could hear him. "What do you think of this place?"

"Could use a splash of color."

"Couldn't it?"

"You happy to be getting clean, C?"

"Very much so, yes."

"I'd get to it."

He flashed a grin and approached the sink. He looked up and found himself staring into a pair of dull brown eyes, devoid of all life and vigor. It took him a moment to figure out that the eyes were his own. He ran a hand through the wavy hair that fell almost to his chin. He scratched the stubble on his neck and cheeks and slackened his jaw to see just how gaunt he'd become. "Wow," he whispered. "That's me, huh?"

The guard outside chuckled. "Yeah, that's you. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"

He straightened at that statement, startled by its familiarity. "It's been years. I look even worse than I thought I would."

"That's what multiple battles and several weeks in an underground facility will do to you."

"I suppose so." He paused for a moment and reached for a razor and shaving cream, trying to hold his joy. "When did you get here?"

"I don't know; I've lost track of time."

"I don't blame you." He hissed as he nicked himself. "So . . . you don't remember anything?"

"Not at all."

"They made you forget."

"I guess so. I don't like that very much."

"You know nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

"You know you have a brother."

"I do. He's the only one I have here. And . . . you. I don't know, I feel . . . _drawn_ to you for some reason."

"Ditto, sister."

"I'm not your sister."

"It's only a saying. And hey, I wouldn't put anything past them." He splashed soapy water onto his now-smooth face. "For all we know, we could be long-lost twins separated at birth."

She laughed. He liked her laugh. "Yeah, I doubt it."

He wiped himself off with the towel and looked around the room. No windows, only a glowing florescent bulb. There was a grate several feet above his head that he could never reach.

"There's not a way out," she whispered, almost like she knew what he was searching for. If she was like him, then she did. "I've looked." She was like him.

"I figured," he sighed. "There never is."

Silence reigned for several moments—the silence of two strangers who saw each other as friends, who fought for different reasons yet shared a sense of affinity. They were two who shared a dream of freedom and longed for that precious gift just out of their reach. He had never shared this feeling with anyone—not for as long as he could remember, anyway.

"I suppose I should take a shower," he said, "but I don't want to get my bandages wet."

"There are more under the counter. You'll have to put them on yourself, but you'll probably do it better than anyone here."

He smiled, took another glance at himself in the mirror, and turned on the icy-cold water.


	38. Chapter 13-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 13.2 * * ***

* * *

She felt ready to drop. Her neck burned, and a twelve-year-old boy gets quite heavy after ten miles. Regardless, though she might be a deserter, she was never a quitter. She kept going.

The town of Truckee was quiet at three in the morning. She walked through with the brim of her cap diagonal to the ground and Timothy clutched against her chest. She found herself grateful for his small frame, though she tried not to look at his ever-paling skin.

He had woken up some time ago, but it was clear that he was disoriented. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and even when he was aware, he simply babbled and groaned. She found it easier to cope when he fell into an insensible state.

That was the state he was in when they reached the hospital. She took a deep breath and went into the ER, knowing that this could doom every plan they'd concocted. No matter. Timothy needed help, and she would readily risk it all to save him.

She hadn't felt this way about someone in a long time. In fact, the last time she remembered caring about someone this deeply was . . . was . . .

"My friend needs help," she said as she approached the front desk.

The receptionist looked up, startled. "Beg pardon?"

"My friend. He got knocked unconscious and shot in the leg. He's woken up a few times, but he still seems out of it. I think he's going into shock. He's got a weak, rapid pulse and his breathing isn't any better." She looked down at his leg. She'd stopped to rewrap the linen halfway through the trip, but it had done no good. The dark red stain made her sick to her stomach. "Please, help him."

The receptionist had already called in a team of nurses. They lowered him onto a cot and began checking his vitals, shouting phrases she either found unintelligible or didn't care to comprehend. She watched as they took him into the back, the sickening feeling in her stomach only growing worse.

"Are you family?" the lady asked.

"No."

"Do you know if he has family?"

 _They were bombed to the ground by 'visionaries and it's all my fault._ "I don't."

She nodded. "Do you at least know his name?"

"Timothy. Timothy Hunt. That's all I know; I'm sorry. We were . . ." She fumbled for the right words. "We were riding the bus together . . . and . . . it got . . . attacked . . . and he . . . we . . ."

"I understand."

People always understand in war.

"You look like you could use some help yourself. Are you a minor?"

Her hand flew to her neck, and she could feel the crunchiness of dried blood. "I don't think I am. But no, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? That looks like something you should have checked out."

Her chip had thus far remained deactivated, and she didn't feel like taking any chances. She would live—probably. She was concerned about Timothy. "It's nothing, I promise. I just want to wait out here for my friend."

"All right," the receptionist said, though she sounded unsure.

The younger girl had already sat down in the chairs and picked up a magazine. She held it in front of her face, shielding herself from the outside world.

A whisper at the edge of her mind wanted her to leave Timothy behind. After all, he could only be a hinderance. She had made it to California; she could finish the trip without him.

But the friendship they had formed over a handful of days rendered her incapable of abandoning him. She cared about him, deeply. He had provided for her when it meant grief for him, and she would now do the same.

She pulled a piece of jerky out of her bag and began to gnaw of it—stress eating, she supposed. After a few minutes she stood up and began to pace. Once she asked the receptionist for an update, but got no new information.

What if they didn't let him leave with her when he got better? After all, she certainly didn't appear very trustworthy.

A worse thought entered her mind: What if he didn't get better?

She continued to pace, continued to gnaw, continued to glance at the clock and pray feverishly for her only friend in the world.

"Well, B, it seems we finally found you."

Her heart stopped for several seconds and her breath left. The jerky slipped from her fingers as she spun on her heel. Never had she been so disappointed, so disgusted, so _horrified_.

"What are you doing here?" she said in a gravelly voice.

"We finally found you," the woman repeated. The same woman who had taught her everything she knew, who had taken it upon herself to shape the young girl into the perfect soldier, who had beaten and tortured and molded her. Funny, she'd never learned the woman's name. All she needed to know was that the woman was a high-ranking 'visionary, and someone who wouldn't hesitate to hurt her. "That was a cute little stunt you pulled, but it's all over now."

"Please." She lifted her hands. She wanted to be brave, but this woman—along with the goons behind her—had struck so much fear into her heart over the past few years. "Please, my . . . my friend is in there."

"Yes, poor thing. Well, you'll never know what happens to him now. Get her. We're going back to base."

The goons stepped forward, and she didn't try to fight back.

* * *

 **I'm mean, aren't I?**


	39. Chapter 13-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 13.3 * * ***

* * *

He woke up to the sound of voices, but this time with no lethal weapon plunged into his chest. He sat up feeling refreshed, the emotions of the day before dealt with in his nightmares. He stood and walked out of the room to the hallway overlooking the first floor.

Below him stood two teenagers, one girl and one boy, talking and gesturing with the flashlights in their hands.

"If you think it's creepy, go back to Mom and Dad," the boy said. He looked a few years older than the girl, and he had blonde hair and a ruddy complexion. "I'm staying here."

The girl wrinkled her nose. "If you're staying, I'm staying." She had the black hair and squinted eyes of someone with a distinctly Asian background. She was clearly on the younger side of the teenage scale, if she had hit it at all.

"Fine. You know, some people say this place is haunted."

"Stop that, Daniel!"

"They say some of the patients here went mad. Their spirits are still lurking around, waiting for some innocent little girl with a purple flashlight to come by so they can snatch her up and—"

"I said _quit it_! I'm _not_ scared."

The boy above them smiled in amusement and shifted his foot. One of the boards creaked and the kids below jumped.

"What was that?" the girl said.

"It was probably just the wind."

They pointed their flashlights upward, and he held up his hands when the beams came straight into his eyes.

"It's a real ghost!"

"Run, Lucy!"

"Wait!" he called after the teens, and he ran to the nearest stairwell. He sped down it and came face-to-face with the kids at the bottom.

"Please don't hurt us!" the boy said, grabbing the girl and looking ready to run.

"Be gone from this place, spirit!" the girl said. "Be free!"

"I'm not a ghost," he said, rolling his eyes. "Although that would be pretty cool. I wonder if I could go through walls . . ."

"If you're not a ghost, then who are you?" the boy asked.

"Just some guy running away from everything."

The girl cocked her head. "Are you homeless?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Are you dangerous?"

"Probably, but I'll try to control myself."

The girl grinned. "Okay. Well, I'm Lucy Barclay, and this is my brother, Daniel."

"Lucy!" Daniel hissed.

"Brother? You two don't look anything alike."

Lucy folded her arms across her chest. "Well, that's racist."

"I . . . don't know what that means."

Daniel glowered at her. "What she means is, we're both adopted. Hence why we don't look alike."

"Gotcha."

"I think we're going to go now," Daniel said, grabbing his sister and pulling her away.

"Wait!" he said before they could go. "Do you have anything to eat? Because it's been like a whole day since I ate something, and my stomach's being really annoying about it."

"No, we don't. I'm sorry."

He took a step back. "You don't trust me."

"Well, why would I trust a strange man we found in an abandoned hospital while my family's visiting the Washington coast?"

Washington. So that's where he was. "You're a smart kid."

"Besides, I really don't have anything."

"But we can get something, right, Daniel?" Lucy asked. "We can get food and bring it back to him?"

"I don't think it's a good idea, Lucy." They had lowered their voices as if to make the conversation private, despite the fact that their new companion could clearly hear them.

"Come on. He really needs it. And I think he has a good heart."

"He's living in an abandoned hospital."

"To be fair, I've only spent one night here," he interjected.

"He's just a guy trying to land on his feet during a hard time of life," Lucy said. She turned to the older man. "We'll go get some food, and I promise we'll bring it back to you."

They exchanged a few curt farewells before the teens left. He squinted, unsure of what his next move should be. Chances are they wouldn't stay true to their word, that Daniel would talk his sister out of her asinine charity.

Then again . . . a man could hope.

* * *

 **Lucy is mine. Daniel is not.**


	40. Chapter 14-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 14.1 * * ***

* * *

His hat blew away with the wind, leaving his face exposed. He ignored it, shouting orders at the men behind him. They slogged through the knee-high mud, weapons poised for any sign of movement.

They didn't talk; they all knew better. Every appendage, article, and accessory was covered in muck, but not a complaint was to be heard. They all knew better.

Yes, he knew it wasn't real. Still, he could admire his captors' ability to create such a naturalistic environment. It resembled many missions he had been on in the past. _He_ was the only clue that it was fictional; after all, he now had full control of limbs that a few hours ago had been in excruciating pain.

"Commander," the man behind him whispered, "the enemy was spotted nearby a few hours ago."

"Weapons at the ready," he hissed back. Strange, he didn't feel as reluctant as he usually did. It was almost as if he were fighting with a faction he truly cared about.

Then the shots rang out. The soldiers dropped to their knees and peered through scopes, looking for an enemy well-hidden in the foliage.

A scream came near him, but he didn't look. He fired his weapon at the hint of movement in the trees, trying not to think about the bullet's final destination. It helped if he didn't think about it.

After a few minutes of firefight, the bullets from the other side stopped. He lowered his rifle and sighed.

"Commander!"

He ran over to a girl, her hand on the bloodied chest of her friend.

"He's gone," she whispered.

"I'm so sorry, Garcia." Yes, he knew their names. They were real people, soldiers he had led for years. He respected them, even if they had picked the wrong side of the war. They were still human.

The man who had fallen, Herman Valencia, had been a particularly strong fighter.

 _He's still alive. This isn't real._

"We've got to keep going, Garcia," another man, Chapman, said.

She nodded and stood, shouldering her weapon. She took a few steps, only to crumple to her knees as a bright red spot appeared on her hip.

He swung around with his weapon leveled, and so did his companions, but two more fell. He watched in terror as Chapman collapsed onto Valencia's body.

"Fight back!" he shouted, like a good leader should. "Get cover! Find out where they're coming from!"

"We can't, sir!" Terzi said, only to have flames shoot out from the shadows and consume her.

"Krane!" another soldier shouted.

"Please, no," he whispered. He found himself surrounded by cadavers, the vessels that had once held the souls of his partners. Lost and misguided as they were, he didn't want to see them fall—certainly not under his supervision.

The rocks themselves rose and struck them down, and fire scorched those temporarily disabled. The undetectable enemies continued the fight, and weapons couldn't compare. He finally dropped his rifle and put up a force field, but a blast of electricity disabled it and sent him to his knees.

They finally came out, clad in black. The lead boy, one with dark hair, lowered his gun and stuck it against the final 'visionary's chest. "Any last words?" he snarled.

"This is not real," he said.

The gun went off. Pain exploded in his chest. He opened his eyes.

Noplace. The place that embodied depression, desperation, and disappointment.

When the helmet came off, he wasn't sad to leave.

A slap greeted him in reality. "For your information," the man said, "it was real. It happened last week. We thought it was something you needed to see."

Garcia, Terzi, Chapman, Valencia . . . it had been real. Krane's lackeys had killed them all. He would never see his squad again.

 _At least that means there are a dozen less 'visionaries in this world._

* * *

 **Inspiration** **: "Fallen Angels" by Walter Dean Myers.**


	41. Chapter 14-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 14.2 * * ***

* * *

Another slap sent her reeling. She fell to the floor and sat up on her knees, attempting to control her frustrated breathing.

"I was trying to get back to a 'visionary base."

"Did you buy that, hun? Because if you didn't, what makes you think I will?" The woman walked closer, her brow knitted. "You were running away."

"Is that really a shock to you?"

"We couldn't track your chip. Why?"

"I don't know."

"Answer me! Why couldn't we track you?"

"I don't know!" she shouted, the tendons in her neck tightening.

"We'll have to check that out later. You've got a wound there." The woman went back over to a screen on the other side of the room, sliding her fingers across a keyboard.

Oh, how she wished she could build up the courage to fight back. Four years of abuse had left her a shell of her former self, and she knew it. She hated it. She hated herself so deeply, so intensely, that for a moment she believed she deserved it all. A coward should get their reward.

"What happened to Timothy?" she mumbled, hating even her own voice. So timid, so weak.

"Your little friend? He's not our problem."

"Is he all right?"

"Who knows?"

"What'll happen to him?"

"We don't know, and we don't care. I don't understand why you do. I thought I taught you better."

 _You wish_. "How'd you find me?"

"How many white-haired, green-eyed girls do you know?"

"I'm sure Krane has at least one. And I thought I covered myself."

"Not well enough. The bloodstains on your outfit also gave it away. We had several reports filed, but we couldn't actually catch you until now. Now that we have, we'll have to teach you what _consequences_ are. Disobedience isn't tolerated here."

She lowered her head and her lip twitched. "I wish the government had gotten me before you did," she hissed. "I wish Graham had sent me to them instead of betraying me to you!"

"If he had, you'd be rotting in a run-down facility in the middle of the desert."

"What do you call this?" she screamed, gesturing around. She immediately regretted it.

The woman reached down and grabbed her by the neck, pinning her to the wall. "When we get back to the main base, you're going to learn not to talk back to me. It seems you've forgotten your manners."

"Oh, and you have such good behavior?" she choked. "You're pushing me into a wall!"

"Miss!" a guard said as he entered the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Delta squad just reported in. They found nothing."

The woman dropped her prey and groaned. "Nothing yet?"

"No ma'am."

"Let them rest for a few hours, then send them out again. I won't let these rebels get the best of me!"

"Rebels?" the younger girl asked, standing up and trying to look brave.

"There's a cell striking out of Oregon," the woman muttered, walking over to the computer and pulling up a map. "They're in a forest at the state line, and every time we go in, it's like they've disappeared. We can't push further because the Army has some bases further north."

"A rebel cell? There's a fourth side to this war?"

"Technically they're on the same side as the Army, but there's no official alliance." The woman put a hand on her chin. "Hmm. I bet they wouldn't do so well against a bionic superhuman. Perhaps that will be your next assignment after you've been _corrected_."

She stared at the map on the screen, her heart fluttering in her chest. Why, oh why, did that Oregon location strike her as familiar? And not only familiar, but . . . safe?


	42. Chapter 14-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 14.3 * * ***

* * *

Lucy tossed him a bag of potato chips, which he promptly ripped open and devoured. She laughed and handed him a banana as well.

"Still don't think we should be doing this," Daniel grumbled.

"Oh, come on. He's harmless."

"Not really," the soldier said with his mouth full. "I mean, I've done a lot of bad stuff before, but not because I wanted to. I'm trying to be good now."

"See, Danny? It's no big deal."

Daniel nodded, but his eyes were still narrowed. He looked at the plaid blanket in his hands and tossed it at his new acquaintance. "Here. I guess you need this more than we do."

"You guys are awesome."

Lucy sat down on the cot next to his and opened her own bag of chips. "Daniel's got a good heart," she said. "He's just, you know—"

"Thinking sensibly?" Daniel finished, his arms folded. "We're giving food and a blanket to a complete stranger."

"We're being good people."

"Yeah, well, we'll see how far good gets us when we find out he's—"

Shouts rang out on the floor below them, and the three walked to the hall to see what was happening. Below them, half a dozen soldiers clothed in black scanned their surroundings, one of them shouting orders at the rest.

"Krane's goons," he whispered.

"I didn't think they would be here!" Daniel hissed.

"What's that?" the tallest soldier said, looking up.

"There are people up there," one of the girls said.

"Mr. Krane told us to take anyone in our way."

They turned their green glowing eyes upward, and Daniel wrapped his arms around Lucy.

"Keep her safe," their soldier friend said. "I'll handle them."

He hurried down the stairs without another word and punched the first soldier he ran into. He continued to the area where they had conglomerated, his hands curled into fists, ready to hit.

The bionics proved their prowess with some fancy fire tricks and one ice blast. He ducked all but one and yelped at the flames hitting his shoulder. He didn't stop. He countered with some fire of his own—an ability he hadn't used in weeks. The thin blasts from his eyes kept back the bigger blasts from his adversaries.

But something was off. It wasn't enough. He felt weaker. . . .

One of the soldiers walked up with a laser bo in his hands and smacked him upside the neck. He screamed as he flew backwards, his neck burning.

He looked up as the pain receded—not by much, but enough for him to concentrate—to see a blonde figure jumping into the battle.

"Daniel?" he muttered. He turned to see Lucy against the wall, fear written on every feature. "Daniel!"

The younger boy had rushed into a battle he wasn't prepared for, and thus found himself quickly outmatched. It only took a lightning blast from one soldier to bring him to his knees. He—a kid who likely grew up with no notion of true pain—cried out. Lucy turned away.

The rogue ran over to the twitching boy on the ground. "Daniel, are you okay?" He waited a moment before putting his hand on the kid's shoulder, only to be shocked. He yelped and withdrew.

Oddly enough, the shock seemed to drain something from him.

Daniel heaved a sigh and sat up. "I feel weird," he mumbled.

"So do I," the other boy said, shaking his head.

"No, I—look out!"

A bionic had charged them. Daniel leapt to his feet and grabbed his opponent's wrists, sending him flying into the wall and cracking the cement. He stared in shock at his hands and took a step back.

"Cool," his companion said.

"D-Did I do that?"

"Guess you're stronger than you thought. But you don't need to get hurt again, and neither does she." He gestured to Lucy. "Run. Get out of here. I'll handle them."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm just a homeless guy living in an abandoned hospital. Come on, get out. I can take care of them."

Daniel stepped back reluctantly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled before running off, grabbing his sister's hand and disappearing through a door.

He sighed and turned back to the bionics. "What are you all just standing around for? Come and get me!"

They obliged, jumping to attack him. He held up his fists, ready to fight—only to find his strength entirely gone. He tried to shoot his lasers, blow with enhanced force, anything. None of it worked.

They jumped him, shoved his hands between his shoulder blades, and brought him in front of their leader.

"I don't know who or what you are, but I think Mr. Krane's going to be pleased with you."


	43. Chapter 15-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 15.1 * * ***

* * *

 _In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out._

 _Breathe, C, breathe._

His arms shook. Sweat rolled off his forehead and dripped onto the floor. His chest quivered with his rapid breathing.

His right shoulder hurt. His abdomen hurt. His right thigh hurt. His chest hurt. His left calve hurt. His right bicep hurt. His hip hurt.

Seven wounds from seven bullets. He still felt their effects weeks later.

Bionic superhuman or not. Advanced healing or not. Medical care or not.

He'd rather be in hell.

Then again, he hadn't been convinced that he wasn't.

He concentrated on the task at hand, pushing all other thoughts aside.

He ignored his body screaming at him to stop. He ignored his arms shaking like collapsing beams. He ignored his muscles threatening to give way. He ignored the bandages that scratched his skin with every movement. He ignored the blood pulsing through his head, louder, harder, faster.

If the girl could keep going—despite the excruciating pain in her neck, despite the fact that she had no idea where to go, despite the fact that she looked so unnatural and revolting, despite the fact that her only friend had been injured himself—so could he.

If the boy could keep going—despite the threat of hypothermia hanging over him, despite the fact that he'd watched people he cared about die, despite the fact that his neck hurt as well, despite the fact that he had no food, no direction, and no hope—so could he.

He shifted his hands to stop the shaking.

 _You're strong too, C. You are. Don't fall now._

Those words had more than one meaning, and he knew it.

The door opened, and he tucked in his head and rolled into a sitting position. Even he couldn't stop the cries that came as a result of that motion.

"You're lucky it's just me," his favorite guard said as she entered. "What were you doing?"

"Handstands. You know, just trying to, uh—"

"Keep yourself strong?"

He nodded.

"I understand. You're brave, you know."

"I know."

"Well, I'm sorry to interrupt, but they want you. And I wouldn't keep them waiting."

He stood and walked out with her. His arms still shook from the strain. As per usual, he ignored the complaints of his body.

 _No pain, no gain._

And if it happened to kill him, that might be the biggest gain of all.


	44. Chapter 15-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 15.2 * * ***

* * *

It was raining when they got outside. She kept her head down—submissive little soldier, just like they wanted her to be.

The rain washed over her body, collecting the mud and blood in her hair and allowing it to drip off her clothing. Not one of the guards seemed to mind the weather. She didn't mind either. In fact, she loved it.

Graffiti and rust decorated the outside of the white vans, indicating that they had been parked in more than one unpleasant place over many years. The guards opened the back of one and shoved her inside.

She sat in the back as the vans rolled along, all heading to the main base. She didn't know where it was or what it would be like, but she didn't want to find out.

The rain thudded against the roof and walls. The wind shrieked as their speed increased. She found it soothing.

Looking around, she found her environment to be entirely bare. Nothing helpful at all. The only items inside was herself. A wall separated her from the driver and his passenger.

She stood and walked to the doors. She threw herself against them with all her strength, knowing it would be futile. Nonetheless, desperation led to desperate acts.

She tried it once, twice, three times. But on the fourteenth try, with her shoulder aching, the rusty doors swung open.

She looked down, not believing her luck. The van rolled smoothly along the road, not too fast for her next maneuver to be entirely unsafe. The truck came around the curve and she aimed for grass.

The world rushed past as her as she jumped, and dirt met her body with no sympathy. She felt the ground cut through her clothes and then through her skin, felt it rip the linen from her neck, felt it snag her hair and yank it from its roots. She stayed still for what seemed like hours, trying to regain her bearings.

Shouts came from nearby. She looked up, nausea sweeping over her. The vans had stopped, and the woman and the goons behind her advanced.

She looked down at her shredded hands, and she could feel her side pulse with every breath. The world around her seemed fuzzy, but she still knew danger when she sensed it.

She stood, ignoring everything that hurt so bad. She looked around at the people that wanted to hurt her and use her for evil.

"It's over," she said, aware of how pained and distraught her voice sounded. "I'm not playing y-your games anymore. H-Here's where I fight back."

"You're in no condition to fight," the woman sneered.

"No. But I can still run. Th-That's always what I've been good at. I-I'm going to run."

They attempted to close in on her, but she had already made up her mind. She willed her unresponsive chip to respond.

 _Never again. You can burn out, blow up, be done for all eternity, I don't care. Just let me do this one more time._

With a burst of strength that she had been holding inside for four years, she took off like a cat on fire. She ran as fast as she could, as far as she could, as long as she could.

Her surroundings blurred: a sign of success. She checked road signs as she passed—she would go no direction but north.

The pain started in her neck and spread to the rest of her body. Everything already ached from the previous days and the jump out of the van. Now she could feel the injury in her neck growing warm and spreading throughout every part of her.

She pushed it off for as long as she could, but finally she fell into a creek with tears streaming down her face. She curled up into a ball as the pain spread more and more, growing worse and worse.

She sat in the shallow water, unaware of her surroundings, aware of only one thing:

She was thoroughly convinced she was about to die.

* * *

 **I forgot to say this before, but Google Maps was a huge help to me in figuring out B and Timothy's trip: locations, time, etc. So yeah. Just giving credit where credit is due.**

 **Also, WikiHow and Quora were my sources for how to jump out of a moving car/whether or not you could survive jumping out of a moving car. Don't try this at home, kids. _Ever!_**

 **Oh, the things I have in my search history . . .**


	45. Chapter 15-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 15.3 * * ***

* * *

Most people would never have to think about how many deaths they'd been responsible for.

Most people could use only one hand or less to count the number of deaths they'd even seen.

Not him.

The 'visionary soldiers in the avalanche. The Army soldiers at the base. The fishermen at sea.

Perhaps he hadn't been responsible for their deaths.

Perhaps.

But when he felt like the whole war was his fault, he blamed himself for everything that happened inside of it.

His very presence had put people in danger. If he hadn't been there, maybe things would've been different. Maybe so many people wouldn't have had to die. Maybe, just maybe.

Few people could say with complete certainty that the world would be better off without them.

He was one of the few.

These were the thoughts running through his head as the Army soldiers ambushed the bionics leading him through the forest.

They weren't 'visionaries; no, the 'visionaries wouldn't dare penetrate land so vehemently controlled by their enemies, at least not at the present time. Krane's soldiers were daring enough to venture into one of the only remaining areas patrolled by the United States of America. It looked like they were about to get their comeuppance for their audacity.

The Army soldiers looked on him—a captured vagrant wearing a tattered version of one of their jackets—with suspicion. They looked ready to ask him some questions when the fight was over. Some didn't wait, but he chose silence.

Let them wonder.

The fight was large and obviously harder than the Army had anticipated. Krane's soldiers held their ground against a squad four times their size. It was gruesome enough that WWII soldiers would recoil at the sight.

In the end, however, the Army overcame. They took down the enemy and were prepared to question their prisoners' prisoner, but when they turned, they found him gone.

Part of him regretted fleeing. A life in prison might not be so bad compared to a life in the wild with no clear direction.

Yes. At least he'd have food and a roof over his head. The further he went, the more he deplored his choice. Nonetheless, he couldn't convince his feet to turn back.

 _Keep going. Keep moving. Don't stop. Don't turn around. Don't ever stop. Find civilization. Find a place to stay. Stay out of the hands of your enemies. They are your enemies. Keep moving, soldier. Don't stop!_

 _Terrible person. Terrible, terrible human being._

He jumped at the new thoughts. He preferred the senseless idioms.

 _Look at all this. Look at all that's gone wrong. So much pain. So much bloodshed._

 _It's not my fault. It's not. It's_ their _fault. They're responsible. They will pay!_

The wind rustled the leaves of the trees as he walked alongside an unfrequented highway. Once he found a town, he would commit a petty crime. At the very least, he needed crummy prison food.


	46. Chapter 16-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 16.1 * * ***

* * *

The guards led him back to his cell. He kept his head down, his thoughts focused on the stories he'd seen. Most of all, he worried about the fate of the girl. Why, oh why, did their stories have to go so wrong?

The soldiers by his sides didn't take him back to his cell. They continued down the hall and his muscles tensed.

They didn't go far. They opened another door and threw him inside, locking the bolts behind him.

He lay on the floor for a second, taking in his surroundings. Another cell, but larger. In the corner was a bed with a figure on it. He stood and muttered a tentative, "Hello?"

The figure turned and grinned. It was a man, perhaps in his late thirties, with dirty blonde hair cut close to his head. His pale skin hugged his cheekbones and his dull brown eyes reflected a broken soul.

"I see they finally brought me a roommate," he quipped.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled. "My name's changed countless times. These days they call me Three."

"Three? What kind of a name is that?"

"Better than my old ones."

"What were your old ones?"

"I don't know, but I know they were worse."

"How long have you been here?"

Three scratched his stubbly chin. "It's hard to keep track of time in these cells."

"I see." The younger boy moved to the other cot and sat across from Three. He didn't know what to make of this strange man. "Why are you here?"

"Insubordination." Three sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not my first time."

"You're with the 'visionaries?"

"Have been since their conception. It's been awful every step of the way."

He nodded. "But you're rebelling."

"Uh-huh. I'm surprised they haven't outright killed me yet, but I guess I'm too valuable. They've been working for a while to find a way to control me. I think they're almost there." Three played with his fingers.

"I'm in for injuries."

"So that's why you're in a cell instead of an infirmary."

"I think they're trying to control me too."

"What's your name?"

"C."

"You're an insubordinate as well?"

"I guess you could say that. They sure seem to think so."

"Starting off young. I did, too. I've wondered . . . if I could go back and do it all differently . . ."

"Would you? Would you rebel, or would you stick to your guns?"

"I don't see how I can follow such broken people. But fighting against them . . . it broke me. You don't want to know everything I've been through, and it only gets worse the older I get. All the people I've watched die . . . everything I've been responsible for. Every time they've hurt me. It's awful, C. I wish they would just kill me. I wish."

"At least I'm not the only one."

Three nodded and shifted on his bed. For the first time, the boy noticed a scar on Three's right bicep.

"You look kinda familiar," the boy said, scrunching up his face.

"I suppose I should. Although, you look more familiar to me than I do to you."

"Really?"

"Yes. But that's only because you're more prone to recognize the past than the future."

The realization hit the boy even as the room went dark and vanished into nothingness.

He gasped in airless noplace before being sucked back into the dark room he dreaded so much.

There above him sat his tormentor, a sick grin searing his features after another successful ruse. "Welcome back . . . Three."

* * *

 **No, he's not going to be called Three from now on. The man was just making a point. A stupid point, but still. (Don't you love how you can blame the characters for your poor writing?)**

 **Coming into the home stretch here. The story ends at 18.3. Enjoy it.**


	47. Chapter 16-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 16.2 * * ***

* * *

She sat by the creek for a long time. Some—much—of that time was spent unconscious. She remembered closing her eyes to a bright afternoon sun and opening them to a sky littered with stars. What felt like an instant to her were hours in reality.

It was in the cool evening air that she finally rose from her leafy bed. The pain ripping at her body had receded and become only a dull ache in her neck.

Perhaps dull wasn't the right word—more like excruciating. But compared to what it had been earlier, it was nothing.

Compared to the pain she'd felt in the past, _it was nothing_.

She stood, looked around, blew air over her lips, shoved her hands in her pockets, and began to walk.

Her legs felt numb. Her cloth shoes had shredded during the run and now hung in tatters around her toes, leaving her skin exposed to the dirt and thorns of nature.

She didn't care.

She could feel an odd sensation taking hold of her—apathy? She couldn't bring herself to care about anything.

Apathy?

Or . . . despair.

She heard a rustle in the bushes nearby and turned to find herself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

"Who are you?" the boy on the other end growled.

For a moment she was tempted to let him pull the trigger. Put her out of her misery. Then. . . .

Then she got a good look at his face. He was a young man, around her age. His dark skin looked tight with stress a boy his age should never know. His black hair clung to a sweaty forehead. He had spindly arms, though not as spindly as they had once been.

She stared for many seconds, and that must have upset him. He gripped the gun tighter and said again, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Leo!" She blurted out the name she hardly remembered, then said it again for the sweet feeling it left in her mouth. "Leo! You're Leo!"

His eyes widened and his hands began to tremble. "How do you know my name? Who are you?"

Her face fell. Yes, she knew this boy—this Leo—but he didn't know her. He didn't know her! She had changed so much. Memories began to come back, and she realized just how much she had changed.

"Leo," she muttered again, and sunk to her knees. The sobs wracked her body. She couldn't handle this. She finally recognized her past, but her past didn't recognize her.

After finding all the missing pieces, she found that she could not fit back into the puzzle. She ran a hand through her snowy hair, cursing it ferociously in her mind when her breath wouldn't allow her to curse out loud.

"Bree."

That name fell upon her ears and calmed her sobbing. The boy—Leo—knelt down beside her and wrapped his arms around her.

"Say my name again," she whispered into his shoulder.

"Bree?"

"Yeah. That's my name. Bree."

"Bree . . . it's been so long . . . are you okay?"

She shook her head.

"Come on, I'll get you back to base. You can explain everything there. Where are your brothers?"

She cocked her head. "I have more brothers? Yeah, I do . . . I don't know. I don't know where they are. I-I don't even really remember _who_ they are."

Leo nodded, and she caught the disappointed look in his eyes. "Come on."

He led her through the woods to an old cabin. She watched as he moved some of the boards around and put codes into hidden keypads. She couldn't even register it all—the tears and exhaustion had sapped her mind of all its power.

A secret stairway opened up and he began to lead her down it. Halfway to the bottom, he stopped, smiled at her, and said, "It's good to have you back, Bree."

* * *

 **For the last chapter: C is Three. Three is C. To be more accurate, Three is a "future version" of C used in a mind game to scare C straight (and mess with his head).**

 **Hey, look, it's Leo. And yup, B is Bree. Funny how that works. This is one of the first chapters of Mind Games that I ever had planned, so I hope you enjoyed it.**


	48. Chapter 16-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 16.3 * * ***

* * *

He figured that drinking out of a tray next to pigs was not the healthiest way to stay hydrated, but it was better than a filthy creek—or no water at all.

He hurried out of the barn before the sun rose. After a night of sleep and something to drink, he felt better. Food was still a priority, but he figured that, out of anything, could wait.

He shambled along the highway with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The heavens opened up and poured down judgement in the form of moisture. He kept going. Rain couldn't be worse than snow.

 _Keep going. Don't stop. Keep it up, soldier. Do it for them._

He hated himself. Yes, he did. He hated what he had become. Deep down inside he could feel the real A—and that A had a name much better than an initial. He knew he could be a carefree spirit if he allowed himself to be. He wanted desperately to drop the seriousness and goof off, but he couldn't afford that. Gaiety could lead to death.

He didn't want to die just yet.

The rainwater slid down his eyelashes and onto his cheeks. Another case of hypothermia might be in the works if he didn't find shelter soon. Yet . . . he couldn't bring himself to truly care.

The town loomed up on his right, and he ducked away from the increasingly busy highway. It was a town of moderate size, and the locals paid no mind to the storm above them as they perused the windows and their items.

He ducked under an awning and wiped the water off his face. People walking by sent him smiles, though a handful hurried past as if afraid. He didn't blame them. He looked like a soldier, and soldiers were either to be trusted or feared—it was hard to tell which from a mere glance.

He didn't stay under the awning for long. He walked down the street and watched as the stores got bigger and looked more commercial. That was what he needed. He found a store that looked good and ducked inside.

They sold clothing. It was not a small shop like others on the street, but still smaller than a department store. Alarms stood on either side when one walked in the door.

 _Perfect._

He walked over to a rack of men's shirts and ran his hand over the cotton articles. He had forgotten what normal clothing looked like, felt like, and he found himself floored by the beauty of such a simple thing.

He pulled out one he liked and moved to walk out the door. He didn't quite make it. The alarms blared and a security guard ran up. The threats to call the police put a smile on his face.

 _Finally._

* * *

 **Inspiration** **: "The Cop and the Anthem" by O. Henry.**


	49. Chapter 17-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 17.1 * * ***

* * *

"Bree," he mumbled. "Bree. B-R-E-E. Br-ee. Bree."

He knew that name. He knew he knew that name. But, like a word on the tip of his tongue, he couldn't figure out its precise meaning.

The girl was Bree. The girl from the story; the girl he felt a connection to. Bree held some significance to him, both as a name and as a person. B to Bree . . . he knew he knew her.

"Still thinking about her?"

He moved over so he could speak to the guard outside the door—the sister, the one of whom he was fond.

"Yes. I know her name now. It's Bree."

"I know. It's a very pretty name."

"She's important to me, but I don't know why yet."

"Describe her to me."

"She has white hair and green eyes, but I don't think she always looked that way. She's been subject to a lot of experiments . . . just like me."

"Just like all of us."

"She met a boy named Leo . . . I think he's important to me too."

"But you don't know."

"I don't."

"Like a word on the tip of your tongue."

"That's what I'd compare it to, yes."

"I know the feeling."

"You're just as lost as I am."

"All I have is my brother. Other than that, I know nothing about life outside this facility."

"Do you remember the sun?"

"No."

"It's beautiful. My squad and I used to watch it set when we were stationed in the mountains. That was months ago. I've been in here for a long time."

"But at least when you're healed you'll get to leave."

"Maybe I can convince them to let you come with me."

"I would like that."

He stayed silent for a moment, taking a deep breath and feeling the sharp pain that came with it. "I wonder if I'll ever heal completely."

"From what? The physical or emotional scars?"

He flashed a grin at her dark humor. Her words held more truth than either one of them wanted to acknowledge. "Thank you," he said, "for being my friend. My squad only looks—looked—at me as a leader. Kitty is something of a friend to me, but we've never had talks like this. You keep me from being lonely."

"Ditto. If we have to endure all of this, why should we have to endure loneliness as well?"

"Solitary confinement is one of the worst things you can do to a man. Deprive him of comfort or sleep or even food and his will might survive. But deprive a man of human contact and his spirit will break."

"Shh, don't give them ideas."

He nodded and grinned again, even if she couldn't see him. He enjoyed the deep talks. He hadn't had such conversations in years, and he found them invigorating—perhaps even inspiring.

"I think the stories are drawing to a close," he said, running his hand along the wound in his right thigh.

She stayed silent for a moment, then sighed and said, "I don't think I'm supposed to tell you this, but I heard that there's only one more part of each story to tell you. The next time you go into that room will be the last."

He sucked in his breath. He didn't know whether to believe it or not. And if it was true, he couldn't tell if joy or longing would be his principle emotion. He still didn't even know if the stories were real or fictional. He wondered if he would ever know.

"In another life, we would've been friends. Do you believe that?" He paused, waiting for her answer.

It took many seconds—seconds that felt like hours, and when she did respond, it sounded like a hammer hitting a nail: sharp, stentorian, and sure.

"I do."


	50. Chapter 17-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 17.2 * * ***

* * *

"What did you do to your chip?"

She grinned at the voice of her creator—it freaked him out, but she couldn't help but feel excitement at being back in the arms of people who loved her. "What do you mean?" She said it with a smile.

Douglas rolled his eyes and nudged his brother—Donald, but she called him Mr. Davenport. She remembered it all now. Mr. Davenport moved one of his tools over by her neck, and she remained still on the table.

"You shattered it, Bree," Douglas said. "Not to mention completely burned it out. I can't fix this."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "This is probably the first bit of luck I've had in a long time."

"Luck? Bree, your chip is gone."

"Douglas, now they can't track me."

He took a step back and blinked.

"It's all the way up at the surface of her neck," Mr. Davenport said. "And it's broken up into little pieces. How did you manage that, Bree?"

"I fell out of a plane."

"But it shattered from the inside," Douglas said. "That injury isn't a puncture wound. Your chip shattered _in your neck_ and was jolted in such a way that it pierced the skin. I specifically positioned it in your neck so it _wouldn't_ do that. You're lucky to be alive. It should've severed a vein or an artery—" He moved aside to a table, mumbling to himself.

"They must have messed with it when they experimented on me," she muttered.

Mr. Davenport put a hand on her shoulder. "What did they do to you?"

She squirmed under his gaze. She finally felt safe; she didn't want to relive the memories from the previous years, months . . . hours.

"Don't push her, Donnie," Douglas said as he put his stuff away. "Bree, I'm sorry we can't restore your bionics."

"Don't be. Are we done?"

"I guess so."

She hopped up off the table and ran out the door. Not that she wanted to be away from her father and uncle (which one was which, she would never know), but that she wanted to walk away from conversations that purposefully brought up topics she wasn't ready to discuss.

She leaned on the railing of the catwalk overlooking the main living quarters. The base she stood in had once been a simple safe house, but after the beginning of the war it had been converted into an entire underground facility—much better lit than ones she'd been in before.

Her family had fled there after she'd been taken. Others with a thirst for vengeance—or safety—had come along, and approximately two hundred people occupied the rebel outfit, working together to bring down Krane and the 'visionaries while simultaneously trying to survive.

She could see Leo walking with his mother below her. Her eyes followed them as they walked together, two beings who shared such a close bond. She loved it. She hoped she could have that again, despite how much had changed.

Yes, things had been awkward. They still mistrusted her to a degree—why wouldn't they? She could be a spy. They felt better after learning she no longer had bionics, but the tension still hung in the air.

None of that bothered her much. What bothered her the most was the fact that something, _someone_ was missing from the equation. She had two more brothers—she'd deduced that much from what her family had told her. They wouldn't say more; they didn't want to push her. But she wanted to know.

She had two more brothers who weren't there. She remembered them vaguely, but she needed to see them again. She wanted their companionship. Yes, she knew they hadn't gotten along before, but things had changed.

Things always changed.

She leaned back from the railing and waved as Leo came up the stairs. She was happy to have what she did—safety, freedom, _love_ —even if there was a hole in her heart that may never be filled.

* * *

 **Inspiration: "Three Minus Bree" and "Which Father Knows Best?"**

 **And you all thought I was going to do something excessively cruel to them.**

 **Well . . . the story's not over yet, I suppose.**


	51. Chapter 17-3

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 17. 3 * * ***

* * *

He made his way down the state, committing petty crimes to receive a night or two in jail. He didn't like to do it—he wanted to make a new, better life for himself—but until he found a better way, he needed shelter and a good meal.

Sad he had to get it from the government.

The people of Washington were not altogether unpleasant, though perhaps a little odd. Most notably, they didn't seem bothered by any amount of rain, from drizzle to torrent. And on days when the slightest sliver of sunlight peeked through the grey, forsaken clouds, no matter how chilly the wind, they put on shorts, slapped on sunscreen, and frisked through outdoor activities. He found all this peculiar—the simple folks of Washington were better trained than a good many soldiers.

He came to a small town near the border of Oregon, right on the Colombia River. He had traversed the entire state in the span of several weeks. Nearly all had been on foot, aside from the occasional cop car ride or lifts from naïve strangers unaware of the dangers of hitchhiking—yes, he found himself eternally grateful for naïvety.

Plans were anathema to him, though something he knew he needed. So as he entered the city limits, he decided to spend the night before returning to Seattle. There he would look for a job—or, if that failed, strive for a longer incarceration.

For now, he was content to shoplift a small item and spend the seventy-two hours in the small cell at the local police station.

He stopped himself as he put his hand on the door. What was he doing? He had run away from the 'visionaries because they made him do immoral things. Now, of his own free will, his actions reflected a lifestyle he never wanted to live.

He backed away, his hand shaking. What had he become?

The drizzling began, and the natives were quickly differentiated from the tourists. He himself acted like a native, walking through the rain without noticing its existence.

He kept his head down and his eyes fixed on the wet road before him as he considered the deplorable level to which he had sunk. This turned out to be to his detriment, as he found himself colliding with another body and then a puddle shortly thereafter.

The drenched ex-soldier looked up into the face of a young woman—around his age. She had the most brilliant green eyes, and the hood over her head didn't hide the white locks that drifted out from behind her ears.

They stared for several moments at each other, an invisible spark of familiarity leaping between them.

He helped the young lady to her feet, his eyes never leaving hers. She had the same expression as him—one of unspoken longing and unknown intimacy.

The girl opened her mouth, closed it, and pulled off her hood. The white ponytail stormed out of its cave to be assaulted by the wind. "Do you recognize me?" The words she spoke jolted him.

Did he recognize the hair? No. The eyes? Not the color, but those eyes . . .

He gripped her face in his hands. "Bree."

She put a hand on his arm, her silent tears indistinguishable from the raindrops on her cheeks. "Adam."

He pulled her into his chest. They repeated the names, both of themselves and each other.

 _My name's Adam, Emily._

"There's still someone missing," she said as she sobbed into his shoulder.

"But we have each other." He squeezed her harder, never wanting to let go. "That's more than I've ever had before."

 _You're not running anymore, soldier. You're home. You've found home._

* * *

 **Source: Twelve years living in Washington.**

 **One full chapter left. This all ends tomorrow night.**


	52. Chapter 18-1

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 18.1 * * ***

* * *

"Adam! Bree!" He jolted upright, his breathing ragged and his lips drenched in sweat. He felt his hands go clammy and his stomach began to ache horribly.

"So you finally figured it out," the man said. Behind him, the brother and sister guards stood, their faces expressionless. The man reached down to unstrap the boy, leaving him free—but not before applying one final smack across the face.

"Explain," the boy growled, "or I'll throttle you."

"No need for violence, C. I promised you an explanation and you will receive it." His wry grin didn't alleviate the boy's fear. "Super soldiers A and B went missing four and six months ago, respectively. We've been working hard to find them, but to no avail. Now, we thought, what better way to find them than with their own brother? Yes, C, you're their brother.

"When you got injured, we had the perfect excuse. Your natural—and perhaps scientifically enhanced, genetically or bionically—connection to your siblings was amplified with that helmet you're wearing. Your brain showed us the story, bit by bit. Thanks to you, we finally know where to find your siblings."

"I led you right to them," the boy muttered. His brain didn't even try to understand the science; it was preoccupied with other things.

"Unwillingly, unknowingly, but yes, you did. Your pathetic self saved us a lot of leg work. Thank you for your help, C. We'll be heading to Oregon to round up A and B and bring them back home."

He could feel the blood drain from his face. He stood, unrestrained. The man had no reason to fear him, and they both knew it. The boy was in too much shock. He wanted to lash out; he had built up the strength, and he could choke the man if he so chose. But he couldn't do it.

 _Pathetic, pathetic. It's more true than you want to admit._

He looked up at the brother-sister pair, longing to know how he knew them. "You were with Krane," he said, looking at them both. "I've fought you before."

The brother's face flickered with recognition. "That's it." He looked at his sister. "They took us from Krane and altered our chips so we wouldn't remember."

"That's correct," the man said.

The boy wasn't satisfied. He knew the girl from another place besides a fight with Krane's soldiers. It returned in a rush and he scowled, staring right at the sister. "You're the one who betrayed my family!" he shouted.

"What?" she asked, taking a step back. "I thought that was Graham!"

"The only reason he knew about us"—the boy stalked closer, a deadly ambition flooding his veins—"was because _a bionic girl_ posted a video of us. That was you. You exposed my family!" His hand came up, struck her face, and sent her to the ground with tears in her eyes.

He didn't hit the man, his enemy. He hit the sister, his friend.

"S-3, restrain him."

The brother obeyed his master's orders, jumping on the boy. "Don't hit my sister!"

S-3 and another guard hauled him to his feet. He looked down at the girl on the floor. His only friend—he had admitted that to her just hours earlier. But now he was filled with such hatred that he didn't know how to control himself.

"Pathetic."

The word fell heavy upon his ears. Pathetic indeed. He'd hit a girl for something she didn't remember doing—something she hadn't done of her own volition. His chin dropped to his chest; he became terrified of himself, and he longed to change the subject.

"Y-You're not af-fraid of me knowing so much?" he asked the man, his chest heaving.

"No, it's no damage to us. Graham's the one who made you forget, in fact. We never attempted to jolt your memory, but if you remember, perhaps you'll fight even harder. And if your new memories do become a problem, we have ways of making you forget all over again. S-1, come with me. S-3, take him back to his cell. Goodbye, C. Thank you again for the valuable information."

He didn't have time to process it all. He didn't remember the walk down the hall or getting thrown into his cell. His mind buzzed with thoughts of places far beyond the drab doors that surrounded him.

He sat on the floor, thinking through it all. His siblings—he finally remembered Adam and Bree, and because of that, he'd put them back in danger's path.

"If my connection to them is that strong," he mumbled, "maybe I can warn them. Adam . . . Bree . . . if . . . if you can hear me . . . this is stupid." He sighed.

No. It had to be done. "I care about you guys. They're coming for you. Please . . . please hear me . . ."

He didn't think it would work. But then again, they'd used that connection to find his siblings. Why _wouldn't_ he be able to do it himself? Unless . . . unless they were still lying to him.

No. He felt like something had been done. He felt like he'd been heard.

Would the oddities of his life never end?

Another thought struck him with such force that he physically fell backwards. "It doesn't matter even if I do warn them. They'll just use me to find them again. I-I can't let that happen.

"Adam, Bree, get out of there. Don't let them find you. And I . . . I won't let them use me to hurt you. I won't let them use me to hurt anyone ever again." He fingered the wound in his chest—centimeters away from his heart. "This time . . . this time I'll make sure the bullet doesn't miss."

* * *

 **(Hey look answers.)**

 **So B went across the country and A went across the ocean. C'mon, C, you're so lazy. He's been in the same setting since 1.1.**

 **Yes, this is his last chapter, but the story isn't over yet. I just rewrote chapter 18.3 because it didn't wrap things up well. Now it does. Yay revision.**

 **Tomorrow's the last day of Mind Games. Stay tuned.**


	53. Chapter 18-2

**I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 18.2 * * ***

* * *

Having her brother at the base made things much better. Adam had been welcomed back with open arms.

They'd removed his chip before anything else. It had been cracked on the edge, and he claimed it to be an accident from a bullet. Douglas said the cracks would've resulted in a disabled GPS, weaker powers, and more glitches, all of which Adam confirmed. Odder still, the chip seemed to have been drained of all its power. (Adam mentioned an encounter with a boy named Daniel, at which Douglas paled considerably before changing the subject and refusing to speak on the issue more.) Like her own, his chip was proclaimed entirely useless.

She lounged in the dining hall with no one around. It was a small room and had a low number of tables; during meals many rebels were required to stand against the walls to eat.

She liked to hang around when no one was there. The rest of the base seemed to always be full, and after all she'd been through, she still desired solitude.

Adam came in and took a seat beside her. It had been two and a half months since he'd come to the base; funnily enough, she'd found him on an errand run. She and a few other rebels had gone all the way to Washington—a location hours away so they wouldn't be recognized—and lo and behold, she found her brother.

As more of her memories returned, she expected him to be the happy-go-lucky older brother she'd always known. To her dismay, she found him forlorn and stoic—a changed man, the product of a changed world.

He could slip into his childish moods every so often, and she enjoyed it. But lurking behind the cheerful grin was an emotionless stare resulting from years of abuse and foul deeds.

She supposed she had a similar stare. She didn't want to look in the mirror to find out.

"How's it going?" she asked, not turning to face him.

"All right. Still trying to figure out this base."

"Davenport told me it was our old safe house. He converted it to hold more people."

"It's nice."

She nodded, ready to move on to deeper topics. Small talk benefitted neither of them. "We're still missing someone."

"I hate to tell them we don't know where he is."

"Where could he be? I hardly even remember him, Adam. Most of my memories are supplemented by what people have told me. All my original memories of him are fuzzy."

"Same here. I definitely don't know what the 'visionaries did with him."

"Do you think he got away? Like we did?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't count on it."

"You know . . ." She paused, then continued, "You know, when I was running away, I met a boy named Timothy. I didn't know it at the time, but he reminded me of Chase—young and wise and trying so hard to be older than he is. That's why I liked him so much, I think—because he reminded me of Chase. I have no idea what happened to Timothy. I don't even know if he's alive."

"That seems to be how things go for us. I guess we'd better get used to it." Adam rubbed his sister's back and said, "It's almost time for bed. That's what I came in here to tell you."

She stood without protest and walked to the dorms. The wrought iron cots with hay-stuffed mattresses and a single cotton blanket were as uncomfortable as they sounded. However, for a girl who had spent nights sleeping on the metal floor of a cell, the back seat of a bus, and the dirt ground of a barn in Kansas, they might as well be silk and down.

The rebels slept in two rooms with a hundred per room—if anyone snored, their peers would soon find a way to break that habit. She slept close to Adam, and that made her feel safer for some reason.

That night she flopped onto her bed, exhausted from another day of covert missions and strikes on bionic and 'visionary bases. She loved the thrill of fighting for the right side, but it took a lot out of her.

Then she heard a whisper from the void—a scratching at the back of her mind. A voice, a sound belonging to someone she knew well. She heard its warning, heard the fear and worry and desperation. She jolted upright, shocked, trying to decipher the exact words.

Adam sat up beside her. Their eyes locked and she knew that he too had heard the whisper—a whisper telling them to run.

* * *

 **(Early update because I won't be able to access internet at 8:00 a.m. today.)**

 **I'll oblige you all: Timothy did survive, and he went to go live with his aunt and uncle outside of San Francisco. He was permanently disabled from the gunshot wound and had to walk on crutches for the rest of his life, but he lived. And though he never forgot her, he never saw B again.**

 **Tonight is the final update. Can't believe the story's almost over already. Stay tuned for A's finale.**


	54. Chapter 18-3

**Final chapter. Thank you all so much for your support and the 200+ reviews. I loved reading all your theories and hearing what you think of the story. It took me a long time and a lot of work, so the detailed feedback is much appreciated. I'm really trying to grow as an author and that kind of stuff helps me. So thank you. Even if you're a silent reader, thanks for checking this story out. I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **I deleted the original version of 18.3 a few days ago and rewrote it because it didn't wrap up well. I feel like this one does a good job of striking home the points I wanted to make, as well as dealing one final emotional blow to both readers and characters. It's the only chapter to exceed 1000 words (without A/Ns), and I'm actually okay with that.**

 **By the way, when you're done reading, there's a poll on my profile I'd love for you to check out. Be entirely honest when you answer it; don't be afraid to hurt my feelings. You might actually _want_ to hurt my feelings after you're done with this chapter anyway.**

 **Soundtrack for this chapter: "Mistakes" by Haimin.**

 **I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy our grand finale.**

* * *

 *** * * Chapter 18.3 * * ***

* * *

It had been precisely a week since they abandoned base. They got out just in time to watch the 'visionaries storm it: they walked in like they owned the place, almost like they knew it better than the rebels themselves. They found it empty, thanks in no small part to the timely warnings of the two ex-'visionaries—oh, how he loved to say that.

The warnings—those warnings had come from the void, from a familiar voice. He would've thought himself insane if she hadn't heard it too. So together they repeated what had been said to them, ignoring the raised eyebrows.

The attack had happened, and the rebels got away because of pure insanity share by two intimate soldiers.

Suspicions of their loyalties melted away after that. The two young adults saved the entire group, and though it meant going on the run, it also meant living. People liked to live.

He planted a knee on the forest floor and looked through the sight of his rifle. One week had gotten them away from the 'visionaries' initial attack, but it didn't stop them from pursuing. The rebels had been headed to an Army base after securing a formal agreement, but they didn't make it before they got ambushed by the enemy.

So he shot his rifle at people at whose side he had once fought. He felt worse than usual—they all had their reasons for fighting, no matter how twisted. He pushed that to the back of his mind: now, of all times, was not the moment to be humane.

The rebel group had called in Army reinforcements, but they had to hold their attackers off until they could come. So he raised his rifle and shot again before motioning a few other soldiers behind the trees.

 _Back in your element, huh? This is what you live for._

For once he didn't argue with that voice in his mind. It had grown increasingly more pleasant over the past few months, and he hoped it would remain that way.

"They're trying to flank us," Leo said as he drew near his brother. "Big D and I are heading around back. The Army should be here soon. Can you draw the 'visionary fire?"

He grinned. "I got you."

"Awesome. See you at base—hopefully." The wiry young man ducked behind the trees to find his father. Oh, how things had changed. . . .

He stuck out the rifle again, firing the primitive weapon before dodging a shot from the other side.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his sister come up and crouch beside him.

"It's not safe here," he said.

"It's not safe anywhere."

"If only I still had my strength . . ."

"If only I still had my speed . . ."

"But we're away from them."

"That's much better."

They smiled with an understanding only they could have.

Her smile waned, however, and after she fired a shot from her own gun, she said, "I feel like something's off today."

"Yeah? We're getting shot at, so it's not much different from normal."

"I guess, but . . . do remember when that voice—okay, it was Chase, and we both know it was . . . but do you remember what he said at the end? Something about the bullet not missing?"

"So?"

Shouts rang out behind them. Shouts of joy. Help had come.

"I keep going over those words . . . what do you think he . . . I mean, do you think he'd really . . ."

He leaned over and shot another bullet into the air. Immediately he regretted it, but it wasn't until a few seconds later that he knew why, until the 'visionary soldier in the clearing many yards away collapsed onto the grass.

The siblings' guns fell to the ground.

Army soldiers ran past, yelling at them to get up and leave. They didn't listen. They couldn't move. They sat in the tangled roots of a tree, and they didn't care about the rest of the world.

The emptiness could never be described. Even with his sister in his arms, he knew that he had lost someone else. It hurt so much, like someone had ripped into his chest, pulled out his still-beating heart, and shoved it down his throat. In an instant he had been filled with pain and remorse, and without speaking he knew Bree felt the same way.

"He's gone," she whispered. She put her hand on his chest and her head on his shoulder. It took only moments before his shirt was stained with tears.

"I . . . I just . . ."

"You saved him."

"But I . . ."

"H-He wanted that. I don't know if h-he wanted it this way, but you remember what he told us, Adam. Now . . ." She swallowed and let out an involuntary cry of pain. She buried her face in his neck as she whispered, "Now he can't hurt anyone anymore."

"He sacrificed himself for us."

"They would've used him against us. I'd rather have him gone than have him for an enemy."

"But Bree . . ." He looked down into her eyes. They were green. He always loved her brown eyes, so full of wonder, and often full of sass. But these green, glowing eyes held nothing but sorrow now. He knew they always would.

The sky darkened and the Army soldiers shouted as they pushed back the 'visionary attack.

Under the tree sat two lost souls, now without their third heart. That heart had given way to a bullet fired from a brother. How much worse it would've been if it was the other way around. The third heart needed and wanted to die . . . it knew that, and so it did not fight.

He held his sister tighter, his chin buried in her coarse white hair. He had her. They didn't have _him_ , but they had each other. Contentedness would have to be enough.

 _You monster. You murderer. You're horrible. You'll hurt them all. Get away from them. Get up. Keep moving. Don't stop. Don't ever stop._

 _No. You saved yourself. You saved her. You're not a monster. Get up, keep going, and cherish what you have now. Love her while she's here in your arms. Don't ever let her go. Don't_ ever _let her or any of them go._

 _You're safe now. You're loved now._

 _You saved him. You loved him._

He looked down at the girl resting in his arms. She wouldn't have done that five years ago. Nor would she have spoken the words she said next . . . and he wouldn't have reciprocated them. But so much had changed; they'd lost their minds, and when they'd finally gotten them back, when they'd finally gotten their family back, they had lost one so dear to them. They'd lost him to desperation and hopelessness; they'd lost him through a sacrifice he had made of himself.

All they had left was each other.

"I love you, Adam."

"I love you too, Bree."

* * *

 *** * * The End * * ***


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